Last Resort
by DreamsofSpike
Summary: Sam/Dean/Cas in all possible combinations. After Cas disappears with the angel tablet, the Winchesters hear that Cas has fallen in with the wrong side, and is going to end the world. The clock is ticking; there's just a few days to stop this dangerous plan. But getting Cas to stop what he's doing may take Dean down a dark path and leave Team Free Will forever shattered.
1. Chapter 1

"So… he just _took off_?"

The incredulous sound of Sam's voice made Dean laugh, though it came out sounding bitter and unhappy. "And this surprises you? It's _Cas_, Sam." He was quiet for a moment before sighing and adding tightly, "It's what he does."

"But… he fixed you up first," Sam observed, his voice thoughtful.

Dean could feel his gaze as Sam looked him over again dubiously, clearly searching for any sign of the injuries Dean had told him about, the injuries Cas had inflicted on him in the crypt. Dean guessed it would be kind of hard to believe that it had happened at all, without so much as a trace left on his face or body after Cas had healed him.

"So… whatever mind control crap they had him under, he broke it. Or _something _did. Right?" Sam concluded, uncertainty in his voice.

Dean shook his head slowly, not taking his eyes off the road in front of them. Sam's words brought back the vivid memories of what Sam hadn't seen – Cas's cold, vacant expression as he'd slammed brutal fists into Dean's face, thrown him to the ground as easily as if Dean had been a child, with no more concern than if he'd been some random monster, not the friend that had stood by him for the past several years, through Purgatory, through… through _everything_.

Dean shivered, well aware that Cas could have killed him with a single blow.

In fact, he had no idea, really, why he was even still alive.

He'd looked into Cas's eyes – and all he'd seen was cold, clear purpose, untouched by any warmth or affection. In that moment, there had been no doubt in Dean's mind.

Cas had intended to _kill_ him.

"Sam, I'm not even sure he was _being_ controlled," he admitted wearily. "I just know that's what he said, but – but then he just took off with the angel tablet, and – he said he had to protect it, but – he said he had to protect it from _me_, and that doesn't make any sense. He was acting really cagey even when he _stopped _pounding my face in, and I don't know what he's up to this time any more than I did last time he just took off like this – or the time before that. Probably won't until it's too late."

"Well – maybe he's got a good reason," Sam offered, but the words sounded about as doubtful as Dean felt. "It's _Cas_. I mean – I'm sure his intentions are good."

That… wasn't exactly comforting.

Dean remembered a few years past, Cas standing in Bobby's darkened living room, insistent that he was doing the right thing, that he was going to save them from the next Apocalypse – mere days before he unleashed hell on earth upon them all instead. He remembered the news reports of the mass murders and other atrocities that had been committed for what Cas had felt at the time to be the "greater good".

"Yeah," Dean muttered, his fists clenched around the Impala's steering wheel, his jaw tight with tension, the cold, heavy ache of dread in his stomach. "That's what I'm afraid of."

A week passed, with no word from Cas, and no progress on the nature of the second trial – and Dean was starting to get restless.

On the one hand, he knew it was probably for the best; Sam needed time to rest and recover from the effects of the first trial before taking on anything else. Dean tried his best to support Sam's determination to go through with this and close the gates of Hell, but he was secretly just a little bit relieved that there was currently nothing they could do but wait.

Sam, on the other hand, seemed restless and agitated. He studied feverishly, looking for something outside of the missing demon tablet that might reference the trials, or provide some hint as to how to go about completing the next one – with no success. He was growing irritable and impatient, and when Dean noticed that the bunker's pantry was getting a little low on supplies, he casually suggested that Sam go with him to do the grocery shopping.

If nothing else, it would at least get Sam out of the bunker for a little while – and it was a short, safe trip that hopefully wouldn't take too much out of him.

When they walked into Lebanon's one convenience store to find the clerk slumped over the counter, unconscious, and the handful of shoppers lying in the aisles, still and silent, Dean realized that he shouldn't have made such an assumption. He glanced over at Sam as he drew his weapon, pleased and relieved to see that Sam already had his own gun out as he warily peered around the corner into the aisle nearest him.

"Dean and Sam Winchester."

Dean spun around at the sound of the unfamiliar voice, its slightly stilted, overly self-important note revealing its owner as an angel, even before he took in the dark suit and weirdly placid expression that usually went along with that tone. Dean noticed out of the corner of his eye that Sam had turned too, and now both held their guns aimed at the stranger, facing them with calm, quiet expectation.

Unfortunately, Dean knew from long experience just how much good those guns _wouldn't_ do.

"What did you do to these people?" he demanded anyway. "Fix them and get out of here. We've got nothing to say to you."

"I will fix them, and I will leave this place – but first, I have something to say to you, Dean Winchester," the angel said, unfazed by Dean's demands. "My name is Ion, and I have been sent to find you – no easy task, if I may say – because once again, Heaven finds itself in need of your help."

Dean's lip curled with the immediate disgust he felt, and he steadied his weapon in his hand. "Yeah, well, we've already established I'm nobody's vessel," he declared. "And if you're looking for Cas, we don't know where he is…"

"Wouldn't tell you if we did," Sam clarified, his voice taut and wary.

Dean nodded once in agreement, giving the angel a false smile as he concluded, "So you might as well put these people to rights and get out of here."

"This is of vastly greater importance than the failed Apocalypse, or a single wayward angel," Ion insisted, for the first time, a note of impatience creeping into his voice. "Though it _does_ involve Castiel."

"Of course it does." Dean nodded grimly. "Well, you see – Ion, is it? Cas is our friend, and while I _do_ owe him a serious kicking of his ass right now, there's no way in hell we're turning him over to _you._ I think we're done here…"

"If you cannot help, then not only your world, but all worlds will meet their end, at the hands of the friend you protect so fiercely."

The urgency in Ion's voice, the barely veiled alarm in his eyes, set a stirring of unease in the pit of Dean's stomach. It must have shown on his face, a little, because the corner of Ion's mouth tilted up slightly in an unhappy ghost of a smile.

"I take it this scenario sounds familiar?"

"Shut up," Dean snapped. Then he closed his eyes, letting out a slow breath before looking at Ion again and relenting slightly. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"Castiel is in possession of the angel tablet."

"And you guys want it. We know." Sam cut him off, disgust clear in his voice.

"That is not what this is about." Ion's voice held a thunderous edge that sent an unwilling shiver down Dean's spine. "Castiel is going to use the angel tablet to end your world."

Dean's world _did_ seem to tilt a little, _right then_, spinning out of control for a moment, his stomach sinking with the beginnings of a dreadful certainty, even as a single thought echoed through his mind, pleading and desperate.

_No, please… please, Cas, not again…_

"He's going to end _all_ the worlds – unless you can stop him."

"You're lying," Dean said, at the same time as Sam demanded, "_How_?"

Ion's stance seemed to relax a nearly imperceptible fraction, and he calmed a little as he replied. "Castiel has aligned himself with an angel known as the Keeper of the Gates. She controls all existing and potential doorways to all worlds – Heaven, Hell, Purgatory – and _this_ world."

"Naomi?" Dean guessed, frowning.

"No. Naomi was attempting to correct Castiel's path before it could reach this point," Ion explained, a disapproving note to his voice. "But her connection with Castiel has been broken. We're not sure how, but we believe the Gatekeeper is responsible."

"So she's powerful, this Gatekeeper," Sam concluded.

"More powerful than any other angel, even archangels." Ion nodded once, solemnly. "And she has become disillusioned with our Father's plan, since your interference, and Castiel's, thwarted it. The planned Apocalypse did not take place, and she now believes that God's will is for her to bring down the walls between the worlds, and thus bring about a new Apocalypse. All-out warfare between angels, demons, monsters, and man. Those who are left standing will be those God wills to be left standing." Ion paused, allowing his words to sink in before concluding, "And she has convinced Castiel to aid her in bringing this to pass. He has taken the angel tablet, because the tablet is key to the spell required to open the doors."

"Why?" Dean shook his head. "Why would Cas do that?"

"Because it's free will meets destiny," Sam replied before Ion could speak, his eyes wide and alarmed as they met Dean's. "It's a way to reconcile the conflict he's had all these years. Does God want free will, or destiny, to control what happens to the world? If you go for this Gatekeeper's reasoning, the answer would be – _both_." A nervous swallow was visible in Sam's voice, quietly horrified. "Dean – it sounds like something Cas would buy."

"No," Dean objected, staring at his brother for a long moment before turning back toward Ion. "No – you're making this up. You just want us to find Cas for you because you can't. Well, newsflash, dude. He's not answering _us_ right now, either."

"And why do you think that is?" Ion snapped. "He knows well that you would try to stop him – and that's what Heaven is trying to do, too. This is not about punishing Castiel for his rebellion or bringing him back into like mind with his brethren. That is such a negligible matter at this point that it has ceased to bear any significance. We just don't want him to destroy _everything_ our Father created – and if he succeeds…"

"Why not?" Dean demanded with a harsh laugh. "Why _wouldn't_ you want that? Sounds to me like the angels would be the ones who'd come out on top. Didn't think you dicks were too crazy about humanity these days…"

"We have not all drifted so far from our Father's original plan," Ion insisted. "We do not all wish to see His most prized creation obliterated from the face of the earth." He paused, before admitting, more quietly, "In the war that would ensue, humanity would certainly be all but wiped out of existence. And… we would lose large numbers of our own as well."

"There it is." Dean gave the angel a cold, knowing smile. "That's what this is really about – saving your own asses." He paused, considering, before asking, "What makes you think we can track him down, if you can't? I told you – Cas isn't answering our prayers. We ain't gonna find Cas, even if we _wanted_ to, if he don't want to be found."

"We cannot locate Castiel because he is under the Gatekeeper's protection, and she is supremely powerful, above any abilities we possess. But you – _humanity_…" Ion shook his head slowly, and there was a note of confusion mingled with grudging reverence in his voice. "… you have always been the pinnacle of God's creation, above even angels. Therefore, in some things, God has granted you more _power_ than angels."

"What's _that_ mean?" Sam demanded, suspicious. "What do you expect us to do?"

"There is a summoning ritual which can bind an angel and bring him to the summoner – and only a human can perform it. It will bring Castiel to you. He will have no power to resist the summons, or to leave until you are satisfied, and free him."

"Yeah," Dean scoffed. "He'll just kick our asses until we do."

"No, that will not be a problem." Ion was clearly impatient again, his agitation showing in his voice. "The ritual will not allow it. Study it out for yourself, if you refuse to believe me. Jacob's Call. You will see. It _will_ work – but not for any angel. Only for you. You don't have to believe me. If you can constrain him to come to you – perhaps he will tell you his plan. We believe he's already started the ritual, but he can still stop it. _Only_ he can stop it, if it's begun. And…" Ion hesitated. "… if _anyone_ can convince him to stop it, it would be you, Dean Winchester."

Dean swallowed hard, a hot, self-conscious flush flooding his face, and he was suddenly uncomfortable with the focused attention of this stranger angel, as well as his brother, who offered no disagreement with Ion's assessment.

"How do we know you aren't just trying to get us to do your dirty work?" Dean asked. "We find Cas, right – just so you dicks can fly in and take him away? Make him drink the Kool-Aid again?"

"Investigate Jacob's Call for yourself," Ion repeated. "You will see. But waste no time in doing so. If we are right, and Castiel has already started the process of taking down the walls – we have little time."

Before Dean could respond, Ion had turned away from him, approaching the clerk slumped over the counter. He placed two fingers to the young man's head, and immediately the clerk began to stir. Ion didn't pause before crossing the room to the customers who lay on the floor and raising them back to consciousness as well.

"You might want to leave before they think to ask questions," he suggested calmly, before vanishing in an instant from their sight.

"Okay, so this Gatekeeper is apparently a real angel, like Ion said – just what it sounds like, keeper of all of the gates. And the Call of Jacob is a real thing, too."

Dean's heart sank a little further with Sam's verdict, and he leaned forward, taking the glass in front of him from the library table and swallowing down half of its contents. Sam didn't take his eyes from the laptop in front of him, his mouth set in a grim line as he read further, silently.

"A person – has to be a human – can summon a specific angel by name, and that angel can't leave until the same human performs the counter-ritual to release it. And – it looks like Ion was telling the truth. The Call would block Cas's connection with Heaven. No angel – not even the Gatekeeper – would be able to find him. Even if one happened to find him – find _us_ – by accident…" Sam paused, drawing in a slow breath and letting it out heavily before going on, "… Cas would be… basically under our power. Bound to us. They couldn't take him if they wanted to. Not to hurt him, and – not to help him."

Dean nodded grimly, one finger trailing idly along the rim of his glass. It was upsetting to think that Ion had been telling the truth about both the ritual and the Gatekeeper.

Did that mean that he was telling the truth about _Cas, _too?

"Oh, here's what he must have meant when he said Cas kicking our asses wouldn't be a problem," Sam continued after a few moments more of perusing the site he was reading from. "An angel bound with Jacob's Call cannot harm the summoner – can't really offer any physical resistance to them at all, because anything the angel tries to do to the summoner just goes back on him." Sam smiled a little, but it was more sad than pleased. "So, _we'd_ be the brick walls this time. He hits us, he knocks _himself_ out." Sam's smile faded. "Not to mention the fact that breaking his connection with Heaven basically restrains his angel super-strength, powers, everything. An angel's grace is fueled by its connection to Heaven, so… yeah. I – I guess it checks out."

"But that doesn't mean that Cas is doing this," Dean pointed out, hating the slight tremor that crept into his too-defensive voice. "That Ion guy could still be lying about that."

"Yeah, but why?" Sam wondered, shaking his head. "If this won't help them find him, or get their hands on him…"

"I don't know," Dean sighed, staring down at the table and reaching for the half-empty glass in front of him again. "I don't know about _any_ of this... I mean, if Ion _is_ lying, then what's Cas thinking? Why'd he just _take off_ again?"

"Well…" Sam considered for a moment before meeting Dean's eyes, resolution and uncertainty warring in his pensive gaze. "… we can always just _ask_ him."


	2. Chapter 2

"I still don't like it." Dean looked around the empty, dusty cabin with a critical frown, eyes settling on the wooden door and its single, ordinary lock and chain. They'd had no need to come back to Rufus's cabin for a couple of months now, and he wasn't exactly thrilled about being there now. "I'd feel a lot safer if we were doing this back at the bunker."

"Unless they're right about Cas," Sam reminded him with a sigh. "If he really _has_ – switched sides again, well – we don't know exactly how this is all gonna go down yet, but _I'd_ feel a lot safer when this is all over if he _doesn't_ know exactly where to find the super-secret source of all supernatural knowledge and power. Wouldn't you?"

It was an excellent point.

Having no valid argument to offer, Dean approached the small wooden table where Sam had laid out the supplies necessary to perform the Call of Jacob, eyeing its contents dubiously. He picked up a small bundle of dried herbs and then set it down again. He couldn't bring himself to look at Sam, couldn't bear the sympathetic look he knew he'd see on his brother's face if he did, as he spoke in a quiet, carefully neutral tone.

"And… we're sure it's not gonna hurt him. Right?"

As it was, the gentle pressure of Sam's hand on his shoulder, the softness to his voice, was hard enough for Dean to bear.

"It'll weaken him," Sam reminded Dean, his voice quiet and cautious. "But it won't hurt him – not unless he tries to hurt _us_. And if he does, well – then, I guess that won't be such a bad thing."

Dean nodded, swallowing hard as he stared down at the table. "All right," he agreed at last. "Let's do this. How does it work?"

"Well, you mix the herbs in this bowl, and carve this sigil…" Sam pointed to an Enochian marking in the open book in front of him. "… into your forearm, letting the blood fall into the bowl. Then you say the Enochian words over it and… that should do it."

Dean grimaced, nodding slowly and rolling up his sleeve as he leaned in to take a closer look at the Enochian symbol Sam was pointing out – little more than a single, swirling line that crossed itself at one point before looping back into the center. "At least it's not too complicated," he sighed, reaching into his jacket for his knife.

"I can do it if you want," Sam offered. "There's no reason it has to be you…"

"Except that you're doing the trials," Dean pointed out. "And Cas said it's… altering your molecules or whatever. What if that makes it – not work, or – or makes you worse, or something?"

"_Dean_." Sam's voice was insistent but gentle, his eyes warm and understanding as he shifted a little closer to Dean, one large, firm hand sliding out to come to rest on Dean's waist. "I'm gonna be _okay_. Okay? Stop worrying." Sam leaned down to kiss him, and Dean didn't – _couldn't_ – resist him, but he couldn't bring himself to meet Sam's reassuring smile when they parted, either. "I _promise_," Sam insisted. "I'm going to be just fine." Sam paused, rolling his eyes a little as he backed off and relented, "But if you feel better doing this one yourself, that's fine, too. It's not like it's going to hurt you."

So Dean mixed the herbs, then took the blade in his hand and steeled himself for a pain that felt almost familiar after so many countless tests with silver blades over the years. This was only a little more than that, and he managed it easily. He read the Enochian from the book with ease – if with a very slight tremor in his voice – and then waited, Sam at his side, both tense and quiet.

Several minutes passed… and nothing happened.

Dean and Sam exchanged an uneasy look. Just as Sam glanced down at the book again, scanning through the spell to make sure they'd gotten it right, Cas appeared abruptly in the middle of the room, his back turned to them. He stumbled a little, visibly disoriented, before regaining his balance and spinning quickly, eyes wide and worried. He frowned when he saw them, his eyes narrowing as he took in the spell supplies laid out on the table – and then paced toward them furiously.

"What did you _do_?" he demanded.

"Now, Cas," Dean began warningly, holding up his hands in a placating gesture. "Just take it easy…"

"How did you find me?" Cas's voice was agitated, fearful. "How did you make me come here? I can't _be_ here right now, Dean. I told you, Naomi is hunting me. If she finds me, _here_, and she _will_ find me…"

"No, that won't happen, Cas," Sam cut him off, his voice soft and reassuring. "The spell we used – the Call of Jacob… do you know what it is?"

Cas froze, staring at them in disbelief – and rising distrust – for a moment. "Yes," he replied at last, slowly. "I know it."

"Then you know that you're cut off from Heaven right now," Dean pointed out, trying to match Sam's soothing, patient tone. "Naomi can't find you, and she can't control you – not until we break the bond and release you."

Cas shook his head slightly, visibly confused, before looking up to study Dean's face closely again. "Why would you do this?" he asked quietly. "Why would you _force_ me to come to you, when you _know_ I need to be protecting the tablet?"

A hot rush of angry resentment filled Dean for a moment at the reminder of Cas's final words before leaving him in the crypt – Cas's insistence that Crowley and Naomi were not the only threats to the angel tablet – that apparently, _Dean _ranked among those he couldn't trust, as well. Dean closed his eyes, with an effort focusing on what they needed to accomplish and pushing his own personal feelings to the side for the moment.

"We just wanna talk, Cas. That's all," he insisted, cautious and appeasing. "We need to know… what you've been doing these past few weeks."

"You _know_ what I've been doing, Dean!" There was an edge of impatience mixed with pleading in Cas's voice. "I've been running from Naomi! Jacob's Call might prevent her from tracking _me_, but it does not prevent her from searching out the _tablet_. That means she could still…" Cas hesitated, looking away and swallowing, and when he spoke again his voice was strained, as if he was trying very hard to stay calm. "… she could still… find it, while I'm away, and if I'm not there to protect it…"

"You know, we could help you with that," Sam offered, his tone mild and even. "If you'd tell us where it is. We're your friends, Cas. Don't you trust us?"

"This isn't about trust," Cas sighed, turning away for a moment, shaking his head. "I just – the tablet… I _need_…"

"What do you need it for anyway, Cas?" Dean asked, stepping around the table and moving cautiously closer, watching the angel closely as he zeroed in on Cas's unintentional admission.

As he neared Cas, Cas took a step back, a nervous swallow visible in his throat – and Dean's heart sank when Cas couldn't seem to meet his eyes.

That was _never_ a good sign.

"What are you going to do with it?" Sam asked softly from his spot behind the table.

"Why do you _care_?" Cas demanded with clear frustration, glaring at Sam before meeting Dean's step forward with his own advance, finally looking at Dean with eyes blazing with defiance. "It's not _yours_…"

Dean resisted the instinctive desire to back off, to flee from the threat of another beating like the one he'd received the last time they'd met. It took an effort, but he held his ground, held Cas's gaze as he replied as steadily as he could manage.

"It's not yours, either, Cas."

"No," Cas agreed, his voice blazing, furious, and his balled fists at his sides did not escape Dean's notice. "It's my _father's_, and he…" His words broke off abruptly, and he immediately broke eye contact again.

Dean's heart sank.

It was a tiny gesture, a barely perceptible reaction – but it was fairly damning.

"He what?" Dean persisted quietly, but he could hear the disappointment, the defeat he felt in his own voice. "What does he want you to do with the tablet, Cas?"

Cas finally looked up at Dean again, his wide blue eyes impossibly sad as he replied at last, "I – I can't explain, Dean. You – can't possibly understand why I must – I just – _must_…" Cas gave up with a sigh, shaking his head. "I don't have time for this. I have to get back to – to the tablet. Before Naomi finds it."

And then, he just stood there for a moment in silence. It took Dean a few seconds, and Cas's confused frown, to realize that Cas had been trying to fly away. Cas's second attempt was more obvious. He closed his eyes, his brow creased with concentration – and of course, nothing happened.

"It's the Call, Cas," Sam explained quietly. "You're not going anywhere until we break it. That mark on Dean's arm means you're bound to him, until he decides to let you go…"

Cas glanced down at the barely scabbed over cut on Dean's arm, his jaw setting with determination, and Dean backed quickly away as Cas reached out toward it with one hand.

"No way!" Dean declared, pulling his arm back out of reach. This was one time when he could do without the angel's healing touch.

At the same time, Dean heard Sam raise his voice to say, "Cas, it doesn't _work_ like that. You can't just heal the mark and make it go away…"

A slight twitch of his mouth betrayed Cas's annoyance as Dean retreated until his back hit the table and he could retreat no farther, but he seemed undeterred by Sam's words. Before Dean could react, Cas swiftly followed, closing the distance between them. Dean flinched as Cas reached out two fingers toward his head, vaguely aware of Sam calling out behind him.

"Cas, _wait_!"

But then Cas touched Dean – and nothing happened.

To Dean, anyway.

Cas promptly collapsed to the floor, unconscious.

As Dean felt the anticipatory tension in his shoulders melt into trembling relief, Sam slowly came around the table to stand beside him, staring down at Cas's silent, prone form.

"Well, clearly he doesn't know _much_ about Jacob's Call."

"Yeah." Dean stared down at Cas, a heavy pit of hurt and disappointment settling in his stomach. "You couldn't have made this easy, could you, Cas?" he muttered.

"No," Sam sighed. "Then he wouldn't be _Cas_."

"I kinda hoped he'd have a good explanation," Dean confessed, then added after a moment with a little half-shrug, "Or you know – at least that he'd come right out and admit the _bad_ explanation. Like he did last time we trapped him like this."

"Yeah." Sam sighed. "Well," he concluded hesitantly after a long moment, his voice heavy with regret, "looks like we're going to need those Enochian shackles we brought from the dungeon after all."

"What?" Dean looked up at Sam in alarm. "Why?"

"We're not going to find out anything if he's trying to stop us every five minutes. If he keeps trying to put us to sleep, or heal the mark, or hit us, or whatever…" Sam shook his head, giving Dean an apologetic look. "He's not in a frame of mind to listen to reason right now, and we don't have a lot of time. He's just going to keep trying to fight us until he knows for sure that he can't. I think this will go a lot faster if we just… restrain him so he can't even try."

Dean considered that for a moment, and realized that Sam was right. Cas clearly wasn't taking it well, their keeping him here against his will. Even though he couldn't do any damage to the Winchesters at the moment, his efforts could still keep them from finding out what they needed to know. It was better to put a stop to those efforts before they could really start.

"He's gonna be _pissed_," Dean remarked.

"Yeah." Sam shrugged. "But what's he gonna do about it?"

"Nothing," Dean sighed. "And the sooner he realizes that, the better."

Cas wasn't exactly a small guy, and he was dead weight at the moment – so getting him down to the basement turned out to be quite a chore. He wasn't offering any resistance, of course; but he wasn't offering any assistance, either.

Finally, Dean and Sam managed to get him down the stairs and to the place where they had fastened the Enochian shackles to the floor. They laid Cas down and carefully fastened his wrists into the gleaming silver cuffs before going upstairs again to consider their options.

"I don't like doing this to him, especially when we don't even know if he's done anything yet," Sam admitted with a sigh.

"Me either, but you were right. We haven't got much time," Dean grimly pointed out. "You heard him. He slipped up. He said his father wants him to – do _what_, exactly, with the tablet? I didn't want to believe it, either, but – it looks bad."

"Yeah," Sam conceded. "And – if it's the difference in hurting Cas's feelings or letting the world die bloody – we haven't really got a choice."

"Right." Dean stared unhappily at the basement door. "Doesn't make it _suck_ any less."

"So… what now?"

As if someone, somewhere had sensed that Dean didn't have a ready answer and acted to provide one, a low rumbling sound began. Dean and Sam looked at each other in alarm as the ground began to shake beneath their feet.

"Cas?" Dean wondered, raising his voice to be heard over the increasing roar.

"Can't be," Sam yelled back, taking a couple of backward steps into the nearest doorway, holding onto the door jamb with one hand and tugging Dean into the doorway with him, with the other. "He's powerless right now, we've already seen that! The spell worked!"

"Then… what the hell?"

Almost as quickly as it had started, the shaking and rumbling subsided, giving way to stillness and silence. The Winchesters stared at each other for a long moment, slowly easing their way out of the doorway.

The table with the spell ingredients had been turned over, the spell book upended on the floor. Sam picked it up as Dean righted the table, then gave his younger brother a worried look.

"That's… never a _good_ sign."

"Hello, boys."

The familiar voice with its taunting note and lilting accent drew Dean's attention in an instant, and he spun to face Crowley, who had appeared inside the cabin, just outside the devil's trap painted in the doorway. Dean drew his gun by sheer instinct, though he was once again reminded of its utter uselessness against the opponent he was aiming it at.

Sam didn't even bother. "Was that you?" he demanded.

"Sadly, I can't take credit." Crowley smirked. "Would that I could, but I'm afraid that was just your standard, ordinary earthquake."

"Earthquake?" Sam's voice was disbelieving. "We're in _Montana_!"

"Yes, thank you for that update on the obvious, Moose," Crowley sneered. "Hence the 'sadly'. An earthquake of that level, so far away from any actual fault lines, is more than just unusual. It's a portent."

"A portent of what?" Dean asked, keeping his voice even and level despite the tightening in his chest.

Crowley met his gaze, something cold and angry in his eyes. "Judging by the remnants of the spell you just cast, and that mark on your arm…" He nodded toward the sigil carved into Dean's arm. "And the overwhelming stench of 'angel' in the air – metaphorically speaking…" Crowley paused for effect before concluding, "I'd say you already know."

When neither Winchester answered, Crowley continued with a grim, humorless smile. "Seems our Cas is trying to end the world again. And he didn't even invite _me_ this time. I must say, my feelings are hurt."

"How do you know anything about this?" Sam asked, eyes narrowed in suspicion. "If you're not in on it this time?"

"Hello. King of Hell?" Crowley rolled his eyes. "Anything happens of this magnitude, trust me, Moose, I'm aware. I have my sources – eyes and ears, constantly taking in information – and what they've been seeing and hearing these days is _very_ upsetting, boys."

"We don't _know_ any of this for sure," Dean insisted, hating the tremor in his voice, and the desperation it betrayed. "It might not be true…"

"I'm sorry, were you _checked out_ for the earthquake that just shook _half of Montana_? _Montana_!" Crowley snapped, impatience bordering on rage in his voice. "But _that's_ bloody normal, isn't it? Certainly nothing apocalyptic about _that_. It's a _sign_, you moron."

"That doesn't mean that it has anything to do with Cas," Sam pointed out, but his tone lacked conviction, and it made Dean feel sick.

Everything _else_ seemed to be checking out.

This was looking worse for Cas – for all of them, really – with every moment.

"Anyway, we've _got_ this one," Dean snapped. He'd seen more than enough of Crowley for the moment. "So you can get lost. We don't need or want your help."

"Don't you?" There was a sharp edge to Crowley's voice, a tense worry in his eyes that belied his cold smile, and it set the queasy feeling in the pit of Dean's stomach to a higher level.

If the _King of Hell_ was scared…

"Because the way I hear it," Crowley went on, his voice quiet but taut, warning, "we have less than three days before it's all over and there's no saving _anyone_."

"Wait – three days? Where are you getting _that_?" Sam frowned, alarm clear in his voice.

"The word is that our dear deluded little Cas has already performed the ritual. And from that point, it's three days until the gates open. So it seems we're running out of time." Crowley paused. "But I'm sure you two already have him pouring his precious little heart out, don't you?" Crowley's sharp gaze shifted between Sam and Dean for a moment, before a predatory smile spread across his lips, a cruel gleam in his eyes. His voice was deceptively soft. "No? I _can_ help you with that…"

Dean took a step toward him in instinctive reaction, his fist clenched and ready. "You're not gonna _touch_ him…"

Crowley rolled his eyes in clear exasperation, unconcerned with Dean's threatening advance. "Well, _someone's_ going to have to do _something _to make him talk…"

"Well, it's not going to be you!" Dean declared.

No sooner had the words left his lips than Dean froze, his heart clenching in his chest as he processed the unintentional implications of what he'd just said. The very idea of hurting Cas _on purpose, for information_ made him feel sick. This was Cas they were talking about, and in spite of everything, he was still the friend that had had Dean's back through Purgatory, that had given up his life for Dean more than once… that had _fallen…_ for _Dean_.

Vivid images of red and black, the stench of blood and smoke and the sound of panicked, hopeless sobs echoed in Dean's ears, and he closed his eyes for a moment, suppressing a shudder.

_No… not going back there, never again… and_ certainly _not with_ Cas…

"No," he said softly, aware when Sam's gaze darted toward him with visible concern, wondering how much was showing on his face and in his voice. "No – we're not letting you anywhere near him. And – it's not like we could hurt him if we tried," he pointed out. "He wouldn't even feel it."

Crowley's smile widened slightly, a secretive gleam in his eye as he replied, "Oh, there _are _ways. But _you_ don't think that will be necessary, so I'm sure we'll all be _just fine_." His final words were sarcastic, angry, and Dean braced himself for a further fight.

But as quickly as he had appeared, Crowley was gone – leaving the brothers with nothing but the taut, anxious silence that stretched between them.


	3. Chapter 3

"You know he could be lying," Sam pointed out, his voice quiet but jarring in the heavy stillness. "It's – sort of what he does."

"Yeah," Dean agreed, but there was a cold knot in the pit of his stomach. "That Ion dick, too."

"I guess it's… possible that they're both telling the same lie." Sam's tone made it clear how unlikely he actually found that idea. "They both want to get to Cas."

As much as Dean wanted to accept that explanation, he found it as difficult to believe as Sam seemed to. "Yeah," he sighed. "Except if Crowley gets him, then the angels don't – and if the angels get him, Crowley doesn't. There's no reason for them to come up with the same lie. And it can't be coincidence. They're getting this intel from somewhere."

"It – _does_ look bad," Sam admitted.

"He's not gonna just admit it, though," Dean realized grimly. "That's the first thing. We need to get him to admit it before we can get him to stop it."

"I have an idea," Sam replied, heading toward his laptop across the room. "There's dozens of variations on your basic truth spell. Maybe I can find one that would work on an angel."

Dean felt a certain measure of relief at the idea of such an easy solution; and he didn't want to think too closely of why exactly that was… of what alternative means they might be forced into to get the truth out of Cas, if Sam's truth spell idea didn't pan out.

"Good plan," he said, turning away from Sam and heading back toward the basement stairs.

Sam's voice stopped him just as he reached the door. "What are _you_ gonna do?"

Dean couldn't look at Sam, didn't want to see the expression on his face to go along with the concerned tone of his voice. Dean swallowed hard, his hand resting on the door handle as he quietly replied.

"I'm gonna go talk to our friend."

Castiel was awake when Dean reached the basement.

Dean had expected as much. Between the earthquake, and Cas's angelic constitution, he'd figured the knock-out touch Cas had taken at his own hand wouldn't last long.

Cas had pulled himself up onto his knees and was tugging experimentally at the cuffs on his wrists. He looked up as Dean approached, his expression strangely calm, his tone even and a little wary, but mostly unconcerned.

"Enochian," he observed, sounding vaguely impressed. "Where did you get them?"

"I've got all kinds of tricks you haven't seen." Dean smiled as he leaned against the wall and faced his friend, arms crossed casually over his chest. "But then, maybe you'd know that if you'd been around lately."

"Dean…" Cas sighed, looking away and shaking his head slightly. "You know I'd be here with you if I could, but – I have no choice…"

"Yeah, I've heard _that_ before," Dean cut in, but he kept his tone mild, controlled. "It was right before the _last _time you went off all half-cocked with your big plans, and it all went to shit."

Cas flinched – just slightly, barely perceptible, but Dean knew him well enough to see that his words had hit their mark.

"I'm sorry, Dean," he said, his voice quiet and subdued, his eyes cast down to the floor in front of his knees. "I'll never stop being sorry for – for what I did. But…" His frown deepened suddenly, and he looked up at Dean, his tone sharp and abruptly worried, "The _last_ time. What does that mean? What 'big plans' do you believe me to have?"

"I don't know." Dean shrugged slightly, not taking his eyes from Cas's face. "You tell me."

Cas shook his head. "I don't know what you mean. I assure you I'm not… 'going off… half-cocked'."

"What are you gonna do with the angel tablet, Cas?" Dean demanded, standing up straight, allowing an edge to creep into his voice.

"I'm – protecting it. From the angels, and the demons – and – well, everyone…"

"Including me."

Cas's voice took on that infuriatingly controlled note of sarcasm that usually made Dean feel like the world's biggest moron. "Yes, Dean. _Everyone_ would in most cases include _you_."

"But not you, apparently," Dean pointed out. "Somehow, you're the only one who can safely have it – or touch it, or – anything."

Cas looked away, a slow swallow visible in his throat. "I'm – not sure."

"Then why do you think you can handle this any better than the last time?" Dean snapped, his frustration rising and getting the better of him. "What are you going to do with it?"

"I don't understand your question," Cas sighed, sounding a little frustrated himself. "I'm not _doing anything_ with it..."

"Where is it?" Dean demanded, taking an instinctive step forward before he could stop himself.

Cas eyed him warily, and Dean's stomach turned at the way Cas's hands tightened into fists, tugging slightly against the chains in automatic response to Dean's advance. "I find it unsettling that you are so desperate to know," Cas replied slowly, his tone cautious, though not exactly fearful. "Just now, when the angels and Crowley are so actively seeking it."

Dean blinked, feeling as if Cas had just slapped him. "You think I'm _working_ with them?"

"I think – you might not be _you_…" Cas suggested, cautiously watching Dean, his posture tense and wary.

Dean rolled his eyes, reaching into his jacket for the flask of holy water he kept there. Instead, the first thing he found was the angel blade he'd relieved Cas of while he was unconscious. He frowned at it for a moment; he'd forgotten he'd put it there. Then he set it down on the small wooden table beside him.

When he glanced back in Cas's direction, he saw that the angel's eyes were passing suspiciously back and forth between the angel blade and Dean's face, and – yeah, that _was_ actually fear, now… just a little. Dean sighed, running a hand down over his eyes before meeting Cas's wary gaze.

"Okay, so clearly _that _wasn't helpful. Sorry." Dean's voice was softened by the understanding he felt, the natural effect of the alarm he could see in Cas's eyes. He didn't like seeing it there. "I just took it because you were going all Rambo up there, trying to fight your way past us, when you can't anyway, Cas. Not with this Jacob's Call thing switched on. But I didn't take the angel blade to hurt you with it. Okay? I took it to keep you from _hurting yourself_. That's why I _put it down_. See?"

Cas didn't say anything, just watched Dean with a silent, solemn gaze.

Dean sighed again. "Okay, look." He took out his flask of holy water and held it up for Cas to see before taking a long gulp from it and putting it away again. Then he glanced around the dusty basement room until he spotted a cluttered pile of old rags and cleaning supplies in the corner. He searched through them until he found a bottle with the right ingredients on the label, then closed his eyes and sprayed himself with it generously. Finally, he took out his silver knife and made a thin, shallow cut in his own forearm, wincing only slightly at the by now familiar sting.

"See?" he said, lifting the tail of his shirt and pressing it against the wound to stem the bleeding. "Satisfied?"

When Dean looked up, Cas appeared to have relaxed only marginally, still watching Dean with a dubious gaze as he replied slowly, "I'm aware I should find it reassuring that you're… yourself, and neither possessed nor Leviathan. I don't. Not really."

"Because you still don't trust me." Dean bit off the words, hurt. "But you should. Just like last time."

"_Last time_." Suddenly, there was fire in Cas's voice, blazing accusation and anger. "You mean, when I asked you to _try_ to understand, and you refused to listen to _anything_ I had to say? When you trapped me in holy fire and surrounded me as if I was your enemy?" Cas looked pointedly down at the chains on his wrists, jerking them just enough to make them rattle before meeting Dean's gaze again, defiance smoldering in his eyes. "Then as now, Dean – _trusting you_ seems difficult."

Dean bit back a sigh, then walked slowly to stand in front of Cas. Only when he saw Cas's gaze follow his movement, calm but warily expectant, his eyes locked somewhere around the level of Dean's waist, did Dean realize – he was still holding the silver-bladed knife in his right hand. Stifling his frustration, Dean held up his free hand in a non-threatening gesture, making a show of setting the weapon down on the table next to the spray bottle.

Then, slowly, he sat down facing his friend, cross-legged on the floor.

"Cas," he said softly. "All I want to do is help, okay? I just want to help."

"I don't _need_ help," Cas replied, quietly stubborn. "Dean – I know I've made some… drastically regrettable mistakes. And I will not ever be able to undo those harmful acts. But – I promise you, Dean, I am _not _making another mistake now." Cas's eyes were pleading, earnest, as he pulled against the chains with one hand, as if momentarily forgetting they were there in his desire to reach out to his friend – then lowered his hand again, his shoulders falling. "And I cannot tell you where the tablet is. For – the safety of the tablet – and of _you_, and Sam. I _can't_."

"Sam and I can handle ourselves…"

"If you knew where it was, and the wrong people knew you knew..." Cas shook his head, looking away again.

"I can handle it," Dean repeated firmly. "Cas, you have to trust me. If I'm your friend, then – then tell me whatever the hell this big secret is, and then _trust_ me to _keep_ it. _Hey_." Dean reached out to touch Cas's shoulder, relieved when Cas did not flinch or pull away, but only looked up to sadly meet his eyes. "Can you do that?"

Cas studied him for a long moment, before shaking his head. "No," he replied quietly.

The look on Cas's face was soft, knowing, and sympathetic – and all at once Dean knew _exactly_ what he meant. Something deep in Dean's chest went cold, and he withdrew his hand, straightening his shoulders and drawing back, swallowing slowly against the sick wave of defensive shame that swept over him. Suddenly, he was the one who couldn't hold the angel's gaze, as Cas spoke, his words careful and measured.

"You _are _my friend, Dean," he said softly. "And you are a… a remarkable man. You are a _righteous _man. But – even you have your breaking point. I've seen it. Even if – if it took thirty years to reach it." He hesitated, searching for words for a moment before continuing, "And – angels have – means at their disposal for – extracting the truth from someone that – well, demons can't even _begin to fathom_ the sort of suffering…"

"So this is all for our own good. That's what you're saying." Dean allowed the disgust, the contempt he felt to show in his voice as he rose to his feet – and he let Cas believe it was directed at him, when he added, "_Again._"

Once again, Cas reacted to Dean's anger with a calm sort of tension that was not quite fear, but expectation – as if he expected Dean to lash out of him, but wasn't exactly afraid of it. He went very still, watching Dean closely with his shoulders tensed, his expression resigned but calm, as if waiting for a blow that he didn't believe could actually hurt him – and a deep-rooted anger bloomed hot in Dean's chest.

Dean was only aware of his fists clenched tight at his sides when they began to ache, and he looked down to see that they were shaking. He slowly made himself release them, drawing in a deep, shaky breath in an attempt to steady himself.

"I can't," Cas said softly at last, when Dean didn't do or say anything, looking up at Dean with sorrowful affection in his eyes. "Dean, I know you don't understand. But – I _can't_."

Dean couldn't do this anymore, not right now, not with the memories raised by Cas's words fresh in his mind, bringing with them an agonizing awareness of that part of him only Cas had seen when he'd rescued him from Hell. The gentleness, the knowing sympathy in Cas's eyes, was a silent accusation – a reminder that Cas had seen him at his weakest, right before he'd pulled him out; he'd seen what Dean's breaking had made of him.

He'd witnessed the last slice of Dean's razor into the final victim on his rack, in those last few moments before he'd raised Dean's soul from Hell. And the look on Cas's face told Dean that the angel believed him to be fully capable of carrying out those same actions now, if he didn't get the answers he wanted.

And still, there was no fear in Cas's eyes, but rather concern and compassion, as if _Dean_ was the one that was in danger of being hurt, here. As if his being here, chained at Dean's mercy, was merely an inconvenience, and he still somehow held the upper hand – as if Dean _couldn't_ take him apart the way he'd done to hundreds of others.

_He's not scared of me at all,_ Dean realized, some dark part of himself that had once taken pride in the artistry Alistair had taught him feeling oddly insulted, though shame burned hot in his face at the very idea. _He's scared _for_ me…_

Ironically, it was that very concern, that unbearable sympathy in Cas's eyes, that brought that long-buried part of Dean raging back to the surface in defensive pride and shame and fury all mingled into one dark, seething coil of confusion. He wanted to lash out, to wipe that look of worry and kindness from Cas's face… to show him just how misplaced his fear and concern really _were_… to prove to Cas that while he might not be afraid… he _should_ be.

Dean's mind flashed to the discarded blade on the table beside him, and his fingers twitched with sense memory – the easy give of flesh parted by steel, the hot gush of blood over skillful fingers that twisted _just right_…

He _knew_, better than Cas could imagine, how to take that softness in Cas's voice and turn it to screaming, how to drive the pity from his eyes and replace it with dread, with _hate_… and for just an instant, Dean _wanted_ to do just that.

Dean turned and headed for the stairs.

He had to be somewhere else. _Now_.

"How long do you intend to keep me here?" Cas called after him, and Dean heard the chains rattle again, heard the frustration in Cas's voice.

He gritted his teeth, held back the impulse he felt to meet that frustration with his own. His hand was white and shaking on the doorknob, something dark and frightening roiling hot in his stomach. Dean just stood there for what felt like an eternity, waiting until the rage had subsided and he could calmly answer to speak, grinding out the words in a low, determined voice.

"As long as it takes."

Sam turned away from his laptop, feeling sick.

He couldn't look at the search results on his screen anymore.

As he'd predicted, he'd found dozens of truth spells – some more effective, but more dangerous, than others. He hadn't found any that sounded as if they would work on an angel. But he _had_ found a few… _other_ means of compelling an angel to tell the truth.

Sam shuddered, not looking at his laptop as he closed it, a little harder than was necessary.

_We're not doing any of that shit to Cas… no way…_

At the sound of the basement door slamming against the wall, then slamming shut again, Sam looked up. Dean's expression was dark, taut – a little frightening – as he approached and braced his hands against the table, facing his brother across its surface.

"Tell me you've got something."

"Nothing workable," Sam sighed. He frowned, studying the tense lines of Dean's face, the exhaustion in his eyes. "You okay?"

"Fine." Dean was guarded, his smile cold and tight and utterly unconvincing. "No truth spells?"

"None for angels." Sam hesitated. "And – anything else I've found, well – we're not doing to Cas. No way."

Dean frowned. "Like what?"

Before Sam could answer, behind Dean, Ion appeared, sudden and silent; before Sam could warn Dean, the angel spoke up.

"There is a way to be sure."

Dean jumped and spun around to face Ion. "Damn it, why do you guys keep _doing_ that?"

Ion did not offer an answer. "We have discovered more about the Gatekeeper's spell," he informed them. "And there is a way to know with certainty whether or not Castiel has begun the ritual."

Relief mingled with apprehension in Sam's mind, and he leaned back in his chair, appraising the angel in front of him. "Good. How?"

"The ritual involves an angel chosen by the Gatekeeper to bear the word in his flesh. This means that he must literally rend his own body and bury the tablet inside – near to his heart. If Castiel has hidden the angel tablet in his own body, then we will know that the ritual has been started. If he has not, and you can keep him here until the tablet can be found, then we can prevent…"

"Wait a second," Dean protested, holding up a hand to stop Ion's urgent speech. "You're saying the angel tablet is _in Cas's body_?" He hesitated, casting a nervous, guilty look in Sam's direction before amending, "You know – _if_ he's doing this? 'Cause we don't know that. Maybe he's not."

"Yes." Ion's tone was calm, matter-of-fact. He seemed to see no problem with his statement.

"How are we supposed to find out if it's – _inside_ him, or not?" Dean demanded, suspicious. "Some kind of – heavenly x-ray? 'Cause if that's your game, dude – if you're still just trying to get us to let you near him…"

"No," Ion replied. "We cannot touch Castiel as long as he is under your power… and your protection. You must open his vessel and discover for yourself whether or not the tablet is there…"

"_No_," Sam cut him off, immediate and certain, everything in him rebelling at the thought of hurting Cas so badly. "We're _not_ doing that."

Dean agreed immediately, his words firm and certain. "We won't hurt him like that."

"He is an angel, not a mortal man…"

"But his grace is diminished by the Call," Sam pointed out. "He won't heal like he usually does."

"But he _will heal_," Ion countered. "It will happen more slowly than is normal for him – but he is still an angel. As long as you do not use the blade of an angel to perform this, then he _will_ recover. In time."

That wasn't terribly comforting. Sam was feeling sick again. The look on Dean's face made it clear that he felt the same.

"I realize that this is a difficult circumstance for you," Ion went on when neither brother spoke. "But _you_ must realize – time is short. If the ritual has begun, and the tablet has been buried in the flesh of the chosen angel – then we have less than three of your days in which to compel Castiel to stop the ritual, before the walls between worlds crumble, and there will be no putting them back again. Consider this if you must – but consider quickly."

And with those words, Ion vanished once more, leaving the brothers standing there in horrified silence.

Sam looked at Dean, studying his face for a long, tense moment. Dean was not looking at him, his eyes focused on the closed basement door. His jaw was set and rigid – the only indication that the calm on his face was less than genuine. Sam recognized this look; Dean was not taking this well, was not simply calmly considering Ion's suggestion. His eyes were shuttered, his expression set – steeled for something he really did not want to do, but felt he _had_ to.

"Dean…" Sam finally ventured to speak, cautious and gentle. "… we don't have to…"

His voice trailed off when Dean took out his phone, already dialing. "I'm calling Garth," he said in answer to Sam's unspoken question. "It took a liquor store to get him drunk, right? That's what he said?"

Sam frowned, confused by the seemingly irrelevant question. "Cas? Yeah. Dean…"

"Garth?" Dean spoke into the phone, turning away from Sam. "Yeah, it's Dean. We need your help. We're gonna need to get our hands on some morphine – and lots of it."


	4. Chapter 4

"Thanks, Garth. Let me know as soon as you know something." Dean hung up the phone and sat down on the ratty old sofa, resting his head in one hand and wearily rubbing at his temples with his thumb and forefinger. "It's gonna take him a little while to get us that much morphine," he informed Sam, as his brother moved around the sofa to take a seat close beside him. "He said he'd call back."

"_Dean_," Sam said firmly, concerned. "I said we didn't have to do this…"

"Yeah, but you were lying, weren't you?" Dean raised his eyes to his brother's face with a rueful, unhappy smile.

Sam looked away, silent and troubled, raising one hand to rest on Dean's shoulder. He couldn't exactly argue with that, as much as he wanted his words to be true – not when he couldn't offer any viable alternatives to the test Ion had proposed.

Dean sighed. "Yeah, that's what I thought. It's not like we've got a lot of options right now."

"If Cas _is_ doing this… if… we find the tablet, then… then we'll know we _had_ to…" Sam reasoned, but it didn't actually make him feel any better about what they were about to do.

"Yeah, and if we don't," Dean cut in, determined, "I don't care _what_ that dick angel wants us to do, we're breaking this Jacob's Call bond and letting Cas get his grace back so he can heal. Period. The way I see it, if he was gonna do this thing, there's no way he'd let the tablet out of his sight before the spell was done – right?"

Sam nodded thoughtfully. "Right. That makes sense. So – we don't find it, he's not guilty. We let him go, right away."

"We can't let the world end on our watch, but we're not letting the angels play us, either," Dean declared. "Especially not if it hurts Cas."

Sam didn't say what he was thinking, what he knew Dean was already aware of – that the test alone was going to hurt Cas, far more than either of them were comfortable with. But at the moment, it seemed to be the lesser of two evils. And it wasn't as if he wouldn't heal, very quickly, the moment Dean cut through the sigil on his arm and broke the bond.

"We can't kill him," Sam reasoned, trying to sound more reassuring than he felt. "Like, literally _can't_, unless we use the angel blade, and we won't. So, what we've got to do to – to find the tablet – it'll heal in like, minutes once the bond is broken."

"And – if we _do_ find the tablet… _inside_ Cas?"

Sam felt the shudder that passed through Dean with those words, heard the ragged, trembling sound of his voice, and understood – because this was an utterly horrifying prospect to him, too. Sam edged closer to his brother, sliding his arm around him. Cas was Sam's friend, too, but Sam knew that Cas had always been closer to Dean. Yeah, they'd been through a lot of ups and downs over the past few years, including times when it had looked as if their friendship was over for good – but that only made this _harder_ for Dean, not easier.

"I don't think we will," Sam said, for Dean's sake trying to fill his voice with all the confidence he didn't quite feel. "But – if we do, then… then I guess we won't have to feel quite so shitty about doing this."

Dean didn't answer, his downcast gaze anguished as he folded his fingers together and raised them to rest his head in his hands. Sam sighed, looking away. He knew his words were weak reassurance, but they were all he had to offer at the moment. He knew already, though – there was no good solution to this problem. They could find the truth about the tablet, but if they were wrong, then they'd have badly hurt a dear friend, and more than just physically.

And if they were right, well – somehow, Sam doubted that _being right_ about Cas's betrayal would make either of them feel any better at all.

Garth called Dean back within the next hour – but the nearest of his contacts with access to the necessary amount of morphine was a good four hours' drive away from Rufus's cabin. Dean felt a strange sense of relief when he got the message, though he knew it was actually a setback. They didn't have much time, according to Ion; hours spent on the road were hours wasted.

But Dean had spent the time waiting for Garth's call pacing back and forth across the creaking cabin floor, his thoughts increasingly troubled, his nerves increasingly frayed. Cas was out of sight, locked away in the basement, but Dean couldn't shift the disturbing image from his mind of his friend, chained and kneeling and just _helplessly waiting_ for them to…

He closed his eyes, shook his head, trying in vain to clear it. He just needed to _get away_ for a little while, needed to get out of this cabin just to feel like he could _breathe_; so the moment the call came through, he took off in the Impala to meet the contact halfway, leaving Sam to keep an eye on Cas.

A little under four hours later, when Dean made his way back down to the basement – this time with a nauseatingly large hypodermic needle loaded with an obscene amount of morphine hidden in the place where the angel blade had been last time, and his brother right behind him – he didn't actually feel any better about the situation.

Cas looked up at Dean as he approached, then at Sam behind him – and the relief Dean saw on Cas's face at the sight of Sam – well, it stung. More than a little.

"Sam," Cas began, urgency in his voice as they approached him. "I don't know where you've gotten your information, but it's _false_ information. I'm not doing anything with the angel tablet. I can't even _read_ it, you _know_ that. It's useless without a prophet to read it. You can let me go…"

"We'll see," Sam replied, his tone carefully non-committal, not meeting the questioning gaze that followed him as he moved to stand behind the kneeling angel, placing his large hands firmly on Cas's shoulders to hold him down and in place as Dean stepped up close in front of him.

"Wait… Dean… Sam, what…?"

Cas's eyes widened in alarm at the sight of the needle that had appeared in Dean's hands. He pushed backward in a vain attempt to retreat, but Sam held him still easily as Dean swiftly plunged the needle into the side of Cas's neck. Cas looked up at Sam with such hurt and betrayal that Sam looked away, his expression pained and guilty. Dean swallowed hard, relieved to see the haze of confusion and disorientation sliding into Cas's eyes, just before his shoulders went slack under Sam's hands, and he slid down into a boneless heap on the cold stone floor.

They laid him out flat, and Sam took out the blade they'd chosen from among their weapons. Dean had sharpened it to a razor's edge, and sterilized it with boiling water and then with alcohol. Sam's mouth was dry, his heart racing as he knelt on the floor beside their unconscious friend. The idea of what he was about to do made him feel queasy, but he still knew that he could handle it a lot better than Dean could at the moment.

Dean just crouched on the floor a couple of yards away, his back against the wall, his fist pressed, slightly trembling, against his mouth, eyes closed, while he waited. Sam almost would have thought he was praying, except that they both knew the only one Dean prayed to at all these days was currently incapacitated and at _their_ mercy. Despite the feeling of revulsion that filled him at _that_ unsettling thought, Sam made himself focus on the task at hand.

The sooner it was over, the sooner they could let Cas go, and they could all move on and try to get past this.

The feeling of warm, wet blood on his hands – the sick squelch of his thankfully steady fingers against soft parts that should never be so freely exposed to _anyone's_ touch – those were _nothing_ compared to the leaden feeling of dread that tightened in Sam's chest when he felt the smooth hardness of stone under his fingertips. He closed his eyes as he carefully withdrew the thing from Cas's chest, as if doing so could somehow keep him from seeing what he already knew was true – if only for just a few seconds longer.

Finally, he forced himself to open his eyes, letting out a slow, shaky breath as he looked down at the stone tablet in his hands.

"Dean," he said softly, his brother's name coming out strained and hoarse.

Dean looked up immediately, anxiously, meeting Sam's eyes. He bit his lower lip, his eyes lowering to Sam's blood-slick hands, and the overwhelmingly heavy burden they held. Worry faded slowly into shock and hurt… and then a terrible, overwhelming defeat and resignation, as the implications of what Sam had found slowly sank in. Sam watched bleakly as Dean squared his shoulders and his jaw, visibly forcing himself to come to terms with what he was seeing.

The missing angel tablet had been found – right where Ion had said it would be.

And Cas was going to end the world.

"So… the chains keep him from… from flying. He can't go anywhere. And – the spell will keep him from calling out to Heaven for help. Not that they want to help him right now, anyway. The point is – he's not going anywhere until we let him…"

Sam was talking, and Dean knew what he was saying was important, but he was finding it difficult to focus past the overwhelming weight of the revelation they'd just uncovered.

Ion was telling the truth.

Cas had started the ritual to bring down the walls between worlds.

And Dean couldn't take time right now to think about how blindsided he was by that knowledge, after he'd nearly managed to convince himself that Ion had been lying, and that they would find nothing inside Cas's chest; how frustrated and angry he felt that Cas _still_ hadn't learned his lesson, after all his past mistakes, all his previous rash decisions made with what he thought were good intentions; how _hurt _he was that Cas hadn't come to him, hadn't _trusted_ him, but had instead listened to some random angel and taken the wrong path, _again_.

No, he couldn't think about any of that right now, because right now, they had to focus on getting Cas to stop the ritual before the walls all came tumbling down.

"… won't be able to fight us, or at least not to hurt us," Sam continued, as Dean forced himself to focus. "It was… easy to… to hold him down." Sam hesitated, swallowing nervously, before continuing, "With his grace drained, well – he might as well be human, right now."

Dean's stomach lurched, his mind going to the bloody gash in his chest that Sam had stitched up as well as he could. "Which means, he ain't healing 'til we let him go," he concluded grimly, rubbing angrily at his eyes. "And we already used all the damn morphine. When he wakes up… damn it, Sam, I _hate _this," he muttered.

"I know. Me, too," Sam said quietly. "But – it also means he won't be able to – to try to smite anyone, or – do any of his magical angel tricks. And – I don't know, maybe – maybe the fact that he's not healing – that he's… _hurting_…" Sam hesitated, and Dean looked up to see a guilty grimace on Sam's face. "He's – he's gotta know that – the only way it's gonna _stop_ is if he just – tells us the truth, you know?"

Dean closed his eyes, flinching a little as vivid sense memory filled his mind – a black blade with a razor edge, smoke and ash and _bright red_ pouring out over his hand… hundreds of voices, screams and cries and desperate, broken promises for which Dean had no interest… there was nothing they had that he wanted, nothing but their suffering…

_But… you want something _now_… and you know how to make him _beg_ to give it to you…_

It was Alistair's voice in his head, and Dean drew in a sharp, shaking breath, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes, struggling to shut it out. It was like some dark, tiny, whispering thing had crawled into him in Hell, and he'd carried it out with him, a constant reminder that he _wasn't_ that "righteous man" Cas had fought his way through Hell to rescue. Not anymore.

_A 'righteous man' couldn't even imagine the things you're thinking right now… not for a second…_

Dean felt Sam's hand on his shoulder, felt his concern although he didn't say a word.

"It's just…" he tried to explain, before Sam could draw his own conclusions. "… Sammy, it's _Cas_…"

"I know," Sam said softly. "It's Cas_. _And I hate thethought of leaving him in pain as much as you do, but – we found the tablet. He's started this ritual. Letting him go right now is – it's not an option, Dean."

"I know," Dean admitted, quiet, defeated.

"It's Cas," Sam repeated, thoughtful, and clearly trying to sound optimistic, "He's no good at lying anyway, we know that. And as soon as he wakes up, he's gonna know we found the tablet. And yeah, he's gonna be in – in a lot of pain, and he has to know we know what he's doing. All we've got to do is just walk in there with the tablet, and he'll probably fold in a heartbeat. No sense lying if he knows we already know the truth." Sam hesitated, glancing down before meeting Dean's eyes with something resembling apology. "I'm just saying, you know… he's not _used_ to pain. Not – not _real, human_ pain. If it – if it makes him quicker to just tell us how to stop this thing, well… in the long run, it's better for everyone."

Dean nodded, but there was a heavy weight in his chest, and a knot in his throat that he couldn't quite swallow down. "Cas is – he can be pretty stubborn," he pointed out quietly. "And – us knowing the truth – that's not enough. Ion said Cas is the only one who can stop the spell."

"Yeah." Sam was quiet for a moment. "We'll just have to make him see reason," he said at last. "We can make him understand that he's not doing what he thinks he's doing, here. This isn't 'God's plan' – if he ever had one."

Dean nodded again, slowly, automatically – but he knew Cas a little better than that.

He remembered _begging_ Cas not to go through with his plan to take on the souls from Purgatory, remembered trying to get through to his friend, and Cas's stubborn refusal to hear his objections. In the end, Cas had done what he'd intended to do from the start, heedless of their warnings – and he'd nearly destroyed the world in the process.

Dean _couldn't_ let that happen again.

"I can't believe that Cas is doing this with anything other than good intentions," Sam went on, the willfully positive note in his voice only making Dean's heart feel heavier. "He has to _think_ he's doing the right thing – and after what happened last time, maybe he'll be more willing to listen this time. We'll talk to him." Sam nodded. "We'll make him understand, and end the spell. And then it'll be over, and he can get better, and it'll all be okay."

But Sam's voice lacked conviction, and Dean was certain that he wasn't doing any better job of convincing himself than he was of convincing Dean. A cold, creeping feeling was sliding up Dean's spine – a sinking certainty that it wasn't going to be so easy.

Cas was a heavenly warrior. Cas had taken on archangels, more than once. He had experienced torture at the hands of angels, and while it had shaken him briefly – in the end, it hadn't broken him. When it had counted, he'd still chosen the right side.

Chosen _Dean's_ side.

_But… he_ did _give in. For a little while. He fell back in line with what Heaven wanted…_

_And… all we_ need, now… _is a little while…_

The direction of Dean's thoughts made him want to throw up, a sick heat of shame sliding over him, as his mind traveled down dark paths into his past that he wished he could leave behind him. It was increasingly difficult to shut out that part of himself that he'd tried to leave back in the fires of Hell – that little part of him that kept insisting…

… _there's an easier way to do this... _

Dean shivered. He'd nearly given Cas a glimpse of that part of himself, just a few short hours earlier.

_But that's_ all _it was… just a glimpse… I'm not going there, not with Cas… not ever…_

"Maybe he's awake," Sam suggested. "It's been a couple of hours. Let's go talk to him." Sam took a few steps toward the basement door.

Dean stayed where he was.

Sam turned to face him with a worried frown. "Dean?"

"You go," Dean said, his voice coming out hoarse and strained. "I – I just – you go talk to him. I'll wait here."

Sam hesitated, as if he wanted to ask for more information, but then he just nodded. "All right," he agreed. He paused a moment before adding softly, "Cas is gonna see that he hasn't exactly got another choice. It's gonna be all right, Dean."

Dean nodded, not looking up at Sam before Sam turned and headed down the basement stairs. He tried to hope that his brother was right… but he couldn't quite manage it.


	5. Chapter 5

When Sam descended the stairs to the basement, he found Cas half-lying, half-sitting on the floor, braced on one shaking arm, the other hand reaching upward, straining against the chain that held it down as Cas tried to touch the bandage taped over his wound. He looked up as Sam reached the bottom of the stairs, his eyes harrowed and fearful, the confusion on his face making it clear that he had only just awakened.

"How are you feeling?" Sam asked, though even as the words passed his lips, he could hear Cas's voice from years earlier, slurred and slowed with alcohol, pointing out their uselessness.

"_Don't ask stupid questions."_

It made Sam's heart ache, to remember a time when the entire world had been falling apart around them, Lucifer close on Sam's trail and Dean despairing to the point of saying yes – but even so, at least they'd known who the enemies were. Cas had been so confused, so lost, during those days – and looking at him now, Sam suddenly wasn't quite sure he'd ever _stopped_ being that way.

"Sorry," Sam offered with genuine regret, as he took in the rather pitiful sight Cas made at the moment. "I guess that's pretty obvious, isn't it? I wish we had more morphine to give you, but we used it all when we – found the tablet."

"Where is it?" Cas demanded, though his voice was weak and breathless, and he winced with pain as he spoke. "What – what have you done with it?"

"I need to know what _you_ did with it, Cas," Sam countered, keeping his voice even and calm as he pulled up a chair and sat down facing the angel. "We already know about the ritual. Okay? What we need to know now is how to stop it."

Cas frowned, shaking his head. "What – what _ritual_?" he asked wearily. "I don't know what you're talking about. I don't know – w-why you're doing this. If Naomi – gets her hands on the – the tablet…"

"Naomi isn't the problem right now," Sam cut him off sharply. "Cas – you realize that if your plan works – none of us will even _survive_, right? I mean – okay, _maybe_ _you_ will, but me and Dean? Not likely. And I don't like _your_ chances, either, honestly, because when it gets out what you did? Every single monster, demon, and angel out there is going to be gunning for _you_. Have you thought about that?"

"You're not making any sense," Cas muttered, lowering his head and closing his eyes, his face taut with pain, his chest heaving with the sheer effort of merely _breathing_, and Sam felt a sharp pang of guilt at the sight. "_There is no plan_. What exactly am I supposed to have _done_?"

"We know everything, Cas," Sam explained with a sigh. "About the Gatekeeper, and bringing the walls down…"

"The Gatekeeper?" Cas looked up at Sam again sharply. "What has _she_ to do with this? No one has even _seen_ her in centuries…" He shook his head slowly, looking away again before meeting Sam's gaze, his own piercing and suspicious. "Where are you getting this information? From the angels? Because, Sam – you _know_ they want the tablet for themselves…"

"It's not… just the angels." Sam chose his words carefully. He knew that if he admitted Crowley's involvement, it would only give Cas more ammunition with which to protest his innocence. "We're hearing this from… several sources right now, Cas. And the thing is – everybody's stories match." He paused, his voice quiet and pointed as he concluded, "Everybody's but _yours_."

"Then everybody is _lying_!" Cas snapped, glaring up at Sam in defiance.

He automatically leaned toward Sam as he spoke, angry and challenging – and then immediately bit back a cry of agony at the movement, his arm giving out beneath him so that he collapsed to the floor. Immediately, Sam rose from his chair and crouched down in front of Cas, reaching out to help him up. Cas flinched away, hard, the chains rattling loudly in the quiet room.

"Cas, hey…" Sam kept his voice soothing, gentle, as he reached out and caught Cas's arms, carefully helping him back up into a sitting position, his legs folded under him. "Easy… Cas, we're not gonna _hurt_ you…"

Cas was tense, trembling under Sam's hands, but he looked up at Sam incredulously, as if that was the most ridiculous thing Sam had ever said. Sam swallowed, looking away for a moment before meeting Cas's eyes, apologetic.

He had to admit, Cas had a point.

"We had no choice about – _this_," he explained softly, nodding in the general direction of Cas's injury. "We were told you'd started the ritual, by hiding the tablet in your body. We had to be sure, and – the tablet _was_ there, so – clearly we were – _right_, to do it." The words felt wrong coming out, and Sam swallowed hard, rephrasing. "We… _had_ to, Cas. But – it's not like we _wanted_ to hurt you, and – I'm not going to do anything to hurt you now. I just need you to _talk to me_…"

"It… _shouldn't_ hurt. Not – not like _this_," Cas observed, his voice weak and shaky, but thoughtful as he looked down at his own damaged vessel, momentarily distracted from Sam's line of questioning. He looked up at Sam again, his eyes wide and filled with dread. "What have you _done_ to me?"

"It's the Jacob's Call bond," Sam explained, unable to hold Cas's gaze, feeling uneasy and defensive. "It – restrains your grace so you can't just go flying off, and you can't hurt us, and…" Sam frowned, pausing to consider the implications of what Cas had said. "… and I guess that also means you can – feel pain in a way that your grace… doesn't usually let you feel it."

Cas considered that for a moment, eyes downcast, before he slowly raised his head to study Sam's face again, his words cautious and measured. "But… you have no intention of hurting me." His tone carried a note of sarcasm so faint that it would have been missed by anyone who didn't know him as well as Sam did. "You have – _other_ reasons for wanting me to be – helpless, and restrained, and – able to feel pain more intensely, yet unable to heal. Yes." The faintest hint of a humorless smile touched the edge of Cas's lips, but didn't reach his eyes. "That makes _perfect _sense."

"We just need to know how to _stop_ this," Sam insisted, earnest and pleading. "Cas – we can't just let you _end the world_."

"I'm not _trying_ to end the world," Cas replied, quiet desperation in his voice. "Sam – _please_…"

"Then why did you put the tablet inside yourself?" Sam leaned back on his knees, watching Cas closely for his reaction. "What other reason could there possibly be?"

Cas looked away, swallowing hard. "You – you wouldn't understand…"

"Then _make_ me understand."

"I _can't_." Cas's voice was taut, frustrated.

"Why not?"

"Because _I _don't understand," Cas snapped, his voice trembling and uncertain. "I don't _know_ why I had to do it, I just – it's my _father's_, and I just – I _have _to…" He stopped, shaking his head slightly, before going very quiet and very still. Slowly, he squared his shoulders as much as possible, his jaw setting stubbornly despite the obvious pain that made his face drawn and pale. He met Sam's eyes again, firm in his defiance as he repeated, "You wouldn't understand."

Sam stifled a frustrated sigh. "Cas…"

He stopped at the sound of footsteps on the stairs, and rose to his feet, turning to face Dean as he appeared at the base of the stairs. His expression was tense and worried, and he didn't so much as look at Cas, but instead focused completely on his brother.

"Sam… I need to see you for a minute upstairs," he said tersely.

Sam glanced at Cas, who was watching the two of them silently with apprehensive eyes, before meeting Dean's gaze and nodding. "Okay."

Sam followed Dean up the stairs and to his laptop, where Dean motioned for Sam to take a seat and then stood back, crossing his arms over his chest and waiting. Sam sat down in front of his computer and quickly scanned the screen in front of him. The browser was opened to a news website, and a live feed was playing – a pretty news anchor standing in front of what appeared to be the splintered remains of a house.

"… one of six similar tornadoes that have touched down in the state within the last two hours, all of which have been measured as F4s or F5s. There is literally _nothing_ left standing in the wake of this tornado, which has left a path of destruction nearly a half mile wide and nearly thirty miles long…"

"What state is she talking about?" Sam asked, frowning as a heavy feeling settled in the pit of his stomach.

"Delaware," Dean replied, pointedly.

Sam looked up at him in alarm. "Seriously?"

"And there was another earthquake a few minutes before this story broke," Dean informed him, his voice low and grim. "They were talking about it when I turned on the computer, right after you went downstairs." He paused to lend emphasis to his words when he added, "It was in _Florida_."

"… impossible to estimate at this point as to the number of lives lost, but in this small town alone, hundreds remain unaccounted for, with at least 27 recorded deaths so far…" On the screen, the solemn-faced woman continued. "We will keep you posted as more information becomes available…"

"Damn it." Sam closed the laptop, turning away from it, feeling sick.

"Yeah," Dean agreed darkly. "This is some serious apocalyptic shit here, Sammy." He hesitated before continuing, a faint tremor in his voice, "I – I don't think there's any question about what's going on here. Not anymore."

"It doesn't look like it," Sam sighed, shaking his head.

"Any luck with Cas?" Dean asked, his voice carefully even and calm. "Did he tell you how to stop it?"

"No." Sam looked up at Dean, shaking his head with a little grimace. "He keeps insisting he doesn't know what we're talking about. But when I asked him what he was doing with the tablet, if not the ritual to open the gates – he didn't have a good answer."

"That's Cas," Dean muttered, turning away and swiping a hand down over his face. "Always a crappy liar."

"But stubborn as hell," Sam added. "And people are _dying_, Dean. And – we don't really know how long we have."

Dean turned back toward Sam, frowning. "Three days…"

"From the time Cas _started the ritual_," Sam pointed out. "And who knows when _that_ was? Things seem to be accelerating pretty quickly. For all we know, time's almost up."

Dean considered that for a moment, before offering, "Maybe the angels could tell? Or Crowley?"

"The angels didn't have a clue if he'd even started it or not," Sam replied. "Besides, if we call them here, they can't take Cas, but they _could_ take the tablet, and apocalypse or not, that's not a good thing. Anyway, Crowley seemed to have more information. We could summon him, see if he knows anything or can find out anything… but I don't want _him_ anywhere near the tablet, either. We know he wants to get his hands on it…"

"Maybe there's a way to protect it? Some kind of spell?" Dean suggested. "We could ward it against demons or something, and _then_ call Crowley?"

Sam thought for a moment, then nodded. "Yeah, maybe. I can check it out."

He braced himself for whatever new bad news he would find on the screen, then opened his laptop again. He was tempted to simply close the news site, but then thought better of it, and merely downsized the window to a small portion of the screen, so that he could keep track of new events while he started searching for workable spells. After a few moments, Sam glanced up at Dean, who was pacing the floor, looking every few moments toward the closed door to the basement.

"You wanna try talking to him?" Sam suggested. "I wasn't getting anywhere, but – he listens to you, Dean. Maybe you could…"

"_No_." Dean's voice was a little too sharp, carrying a note of something vaguely resembling panic.

Sam frowned, his fingers momentarily stilling on the keyboard. "Dean?" he began with cautious concern. "What…?"

"I need some air," Dean announced quickly, cutting Sam off and heading for the cabin door.

Sam's frown deepened. "Dean…"

"Just give me a minute, Sammy, would you?" Dean snapped. "Keep looking for that spell! We don't have much time!"

He didn't give Sam time to respond before he was out the door, slamming it shut behind him. Sam started to get up, worried by Dean's behavior – but then another story popped up on the news site – an impending hurricane.

In South Dakota.

_We're running out of time here, and we don't even know how fast…_

Sam bit his lip, considering, his eyes locked onto the door out which Dean had just disappeared. His hesitation cost him the choice, however, because another moment later, Sam heard the Impala's engine roaring to life outside, and the sound of her tires crunching in the leaves outside the cabin as Dean drove away.

Sam took out his cell phone and dialed Dean's number, waiting anxiously for him to pick up. When he did, on the fourth ring, Sam spoke without waiting for a greeting.

"What the hell was that?"

"Sammy," Dean sighed, his voice raw with exhaustion and – something else. Something Sam couldn't quite put his finger on. "I'm _sorry_, okay? Just – I need a minute. I'm not going far, all right? I'll be back in an hour, tops. Just – let me know if anything else happens, or if you find a spell. Okay?"

Sam hesitated, but then decided that if Dean was actually telling Sam what he needed for a change, that was at least _something_.

"An hour," Sam repeated firmly. "And when you get back here – we're going to talk about this."

Dean was quiet for a long moment.

"_Dean_."

"All _right_," Dean grumbled. "Fine, just – _later_."

Sam hung up the phone and attempted to focus his attention on his laptop. It was difficult, amidst the distractions of the increasingly grim news stories that kept popping up in the small window to the side; and the ever-present awareness in the back of his mind of Cas, chained up and in pain and stubbornly _alone _in the basement.

And then there was Dean.

But as worried as Sam was about his brother, he knew that he had bigger issues to think about. Sam had two priorities at the moment – finding out just how quickly their time was running out, and figuring out a way to get Cas to give in before it was too late to save anyone.

Whatever the hell was going on with Dean… it was just going to have to wait.


	6. Chapter 6

Dean pressed down harder on the Impala's gas pedal as he took her over the winding country roads, taking comfort in the familiar rumble of her engine and the way she responded to his slightest correction of the wheel with instant precision. He could lose himself in the simple pleasure of driving, forget whatever thoughts were troubling him, forget that anyone and anything except him and his baby even existed, for just a little while.

Usually.

Yet Dean couldn't shake the sick feeling of panic swelling in his chest, couldn't keep from thinking about his friend locked up in that basement, and his brother who was trying to find a way to save the _world _from that friend, and the fact that they were running out of time, and the only way to get Cas to give in and stop the ritual might just be traveling down dark roads into his past that he'd tried to leave behind forever.

Dean tried not to think about the fact that he'd _already _been thinking it, even before the death toll started rising – that he'd already considered how easy it'd be to take advantage of the unusually human pain threshold Cas had at the moment, to use his own well-honed skills of painful persuasion to shatter Cas's resolve and just _end _this thing already…

He tried not to think about the fact, the _certainty_ in the back of his mind… that with this much at stake, if it was _anyone_ but Cas… he'd _already_ have crossed that line.

_Damn it, why can't he just_ listen _to me?_ Dean slammed his palm against the steering wheel in frustration, the throbbing pain from the gesture a welcome, all-too-brief distraction from his thoughts. _This is just like the last time… when I_ _tried just talking to him, and it didn't work, and he killed who knows how many people, thinking he was_ doing the right thing_, and…_

… _and I can't let that happen again. I_ can't. _No matter what it takes…_

Dean had been driving for about half an hour when he realized that as much as he dreaded it, he needed to turn around and head back to the cabin. Sam was still weak from the first trial, and with the frequent traffic from the various angels and demons that had been showing up in the past few days, Dean didn't feel great about leaving Sam there without backup for long.

Just ahead and to the right, Dean saw a sign for a gas station and convenience store. He still had about a quarter of a tank of gas, but he pulled into the parking lot anyway. He was aware that he was stalling for time, but couldn't really bring himself to care at the moment. As he slowed the Impala and prepared to pull up to the pump, Dean noticed a building just beyond the convenience store, with a lighted sign that read "_TJ's Liquor_".

Dean hesitated. To say that he and Sam had a lot to deal with at the moment was an extreme understatement, and Dean _really _needed to be clear-headed right now…

… not that the thoughts he was having while stone cold sober were all that useful. Or encouraging. Or fucking _sane_.

_Encouraging, no… sanity's overrated, anyway… but _useful… _Dean, you know very well how…_ effective _those ideas you took out of Hell can be…_

Alastair's voice again, this time with the image of his face, smiling but bloodied, with a measure of fear in his eyes – and the thrill of pleasure and satisfaction Dean had felt at the sight...

_Fuck. _

The Impala's engine roared as Dean gunned it through the convenience store parking lot and brought her to a stop outside the liquor store beyond it.

_It's been years since you were physically _capable_ of getting drunk,_ he reasoned. _Just something to take the edge off… help you focus a little and get through this… that's all…_

The moment he stepped inside the liquor store, Dean realized that something was very wrong. It was completely silent, and there was no one in sight – at least, not until he moved closer to the counter and saw the still, lifeless body of the clerk lying on the floor behind it. The young man's dull eyes stared blankly up at the ceiling, and from where he stood, Dean could clearly see the bloody gash where his throat had once been – though there was a lot less blood on the floor around the kid than there should have been.

There was nothing that could be done for the poor kid now. Drawing his weapon, Dean made his way carefully through the rest of the store, a grim, leaden pit forming in his stomach with each new victim that he found – three in all, two men and one woman. But what little blood remained hadn't even dried yet, so Dean knew the attack had to have happened very recently – within the past couple of hours.

The absence of blood, the torn flesh at the victims' throats, all of Dean's experience and instincts told him that this was a vampire attack – except that most vampires he'd come across still preferred to hunt at night, and tended to keep a low profile in order to keep from drawing the attention of hunters.

_Unless these are vampires that have spent the last who knows how long in a place where it's never really dark or light…_ Dean's stomach clenched, a heavy sense of dread sliding over him. _Unless they're so starved for human blood that they don't _care_ if they get caught… or worse, aren't afraid of anything… have gotten used to fighting things a whole lot scarier than human hunters…_

Dean's mind flashed back to Purgatory, and the roaming packs of vampires he and Benny and Cas had run into on more than one occasion there.

_No… not yet… the walls can't be coming down yet… _

_But… we don't really know _when _they're coming down, do we?_

It was too late to do anything for the unfortunate shoppers who'd happened to be here when the vamps had attacked; so Dean knocked out the overhead security camera with the handle of a nearby broom, then took a couple of bottles from the shelves and headed back out to the car. He tossed them into the Impala's passenger seat and got inside, glancing across the parking lot at the convenience store and wondering if anyone inside had noticed anything strange from the shop next door.

Suddenly uneasy, Dean got back out of the Impala, favoring the element of surprise over her speed and power. As quietly as possible, he took a machete from the trunk and closed it again, then made his way carefully across the parking lot, stopping at the wall beside the large picture windows that made up the front of the store. It was only then that he realized: there were no people in the parking lot; the red Volvo he'd noticed at the pump when he pulled in still had the driver side door open and waiting for someone who was probably never coming back.

Dean carefully pushed open the glass door to the convenience store, wincing slightly at the tinkling bells that heralded his entrance. But as at the liquor store, there didn't seem to be anyone around to hear them. There were a few more people in this store than had been in the liquor store – all in the same condition. Dean had just crouched down to inspect the wound in the neck of an older woman when he heard a faint sound from across the room.

He rose to his feet silently, weapon ready in front of him as he carefully approached the source of the sound. Dean's stomach lurched as he rounded an aisle full of potato chips and candy bars, and found a young girl lying on the floor, a weak hand trembling against her gaping throat. Fearful blue eyes rolled toward him as he approached, and a choked whimper escaped her lips.

"Hey, it's okay… I'm here to help you," Dean assured her gently as he quickly knelt beside her, setting down his machete, pulling her hand away and replacing it with the firmer pressure of his own. As he did, his eyes were momentarily drawn toward the bright colors of the handmade braided bracelet she wore on her wrist.

Once she seemed assured that Dean was not going to hurt her, the girl's eyes shifted up and to her left, and she tried to speak, though all that came out was an agonizing rattle of weak, failing breath. There was an urgency in her eyes, a desperation to the way she grasped at his arm, and Dean instinctively ran his free hand through her hair.

"Shhh, it's okay… you're gonna be okay…" he soothed her gently, though his heart sank as he took in the blue tinge of her lips, and her wrist fell listlessly into his grasp, too weak even to hold it up any longer. Dean glanced in the direction she'd been looking, and saw that a few feet away from her lay the body of a man in a theme park t-shirt, jeans, and a baseball cap, his face still and frozen in horror.

A braided bracelet to match the girl's was on his wrist.

Dean felt sick as he returned his gaze to the girl. She couldn't have been more than twelve years old. Automatically, although he knew she couldn't see the man from her position, and she couldn't move, Dean found himself shifting a little to place himself between the girl and the lifeless body of her father.

There was nothing that could be done for him, anymore, but maybe… _maybe_…

"It's gonna be okay. I'm gonna get you some help, okay?" Dean promised, reaching for his cell phone with the hand that wasn't applying pressure to her throat. But before he could even get it out of his pocket and dial 9-1-1, panic filled the girl's eyes, as she struggled for one last, rasping breath that failed her.

"No, no, no," Dean muttered, gathering the girl up into his arms, tilting her head back, trying to clear her airways as much as possible. He leaned down over her, prepared to breathe _for_ her if necessary, to keep her alive until help could arrive – but he went still an inch from her face, his heart clenching in his chest. The light had faded from the child's eyes, leaving them dull and blank and staring into nothing. Defeated, Dean dropped the phone from his hand, lowering his head and closing his eyes as he held the girl's broken body in his arms.

He'd arrived too late, after all. There was nothing he could do for her now.

Dean gently lowered her back down onto the floor, then rose to his feet slowly, his jaw setting with frustration and angry determination. He picked up his weapon and headed to the car with swift, purposeful steps, slamming the Impala's door with one hand and turning the key in the ignition with the other. As she roared to life and took off down the highway back toward the cabin, Dean reached for one of his pilfered bottles and took a long pull, relishing the burn as it poured down his throat.

Maybe there was nothing he could do for _anyone_, anymore. Maybe they'd hesitated too long, and it was too late to change what was going to happen.

But he'd be damned if he wasn't going to die trying.

Sam didn't find any more answers in his second Internet search than he had the first time around – no angel truth spells, and nothing that could mask the presence of something as powerful and ancient as the angel tablet from the likes of Crowley. Of course, it might have been a little easier to concentrate if he hadn't been interrupted with a new alert informing him of some new disaster every ten minutes or so: earthquakes, tornadoes, forest fires…

_You name it, it's happening out there right now… which means we're running out of time_.

It also might have been a little easier for Sam to concentrate if he hadn't been so worried about Dean.

_His best friend's about to blow up the world – again. And there's nothing we can do about it, short of… _

Sam's thoughts went unbidden to the article he'd found earlier, when looking for truth spells – a very different means of eliciting the truth from a reluctant angel than what he'd been looking for. Sam shuddered, trying to banish the mental images that accompanied the remembered words. He wasn't going to mention it to Dean. No, that was just one additional conflict that Dean shouldn't have to deal with.

This time, Sam was just going to make the call.

They _weren't_ going there. Period. No matter what.

_There has to be another way. There_ has _to... _

"No luck?"

Sam jumped, getting to his feet and spinning around to face Crowley, who had abruptly materialized behind him. The King of Hell had a somewhat bored expression on his lips, but his eyes were dark and troubled, and there was a tension in his expression that betrayed his worry.

Although Crowley seemed far more concerned with the impending Apocalypse than with the angel tablet at the moment, Sam immediately thought of his backpack, lying under the table, with the tablet inside. They could never be too careful with Crowley, and Sam wouldn't put it past him to use this situation as an opportunity to steal the tablet. With one hand, Sam reached behind him for the demon-killing knife he'd left there beside his laptop, holding it up and giving Crowley a cold smile.

"You might want to be careful who you go sneaking up on, Crowley."

Crowley's smile didn't falter. "You might want to be careful who you go threatening to _kill_, Moose," he retorted in a mild tone. "Considering that I'm here to _help_ you…" Crowley gave an exaggerated shudder. "… as much as it grates me to say so." He paused a moment, glancing past Sam to his laptop screen before adding, "I see you've been keeping up with the events of the past few hours."

"Yeah." Sam sighed, turning his grim gaze back toward the screen and stepping a bit to the side, so that he could keep an eye on both it and Crowley at the same time. "It's getting ugly out there. We were hoping you might have some idea of exactly how much time we've got left."

"_Exactly_? No," Crowley replied. "But I can tell you this – it's started."

Sam's stomach dropped, and he frowned. "What does that mean?"

"There are already… gaps, in the walls. Creatures slipping through into the wrong worlds," Crowley explained. He nodded toward the laptop before going on. "News networks are covering the major natural disasters at the moment, mostly – which means a few stories are slipping through the cracks. Like random acts of violence that are difficult to explain in… _human_ terms."

"Monsters?" Sam guessed.

"All manner," Crowley confirmed. "Fresh from Purgatory and ravenous for the flesh and blood humans they haven't had access to in centuries. And not _just_ monsters, either. A class of second graders in Minnesota was found half an hour ago – all dead. Exploded from the inside out. Their teacher had her eyes burned from her skull. Sounds like a case of mass angel possession gone wrong to me."

Sam felt immediately, overwhelmingly sick. He sat back down in his chair, raking a shaky hand through his hair.

"People are _dying_, Moose – and not just _your _people, mine too. Hell itself is under siege at the moment. And business is depressingly slow." Crowley shrugged, an unhappy smirk crossing his lips. "No one wants to deal with the devil when the world's about to end. Which is why I thought it a good time to check in with our heroes and see what progress they've made." His smile faded as he concluded, "I'm finding it rather underwhelming."

"We're _trying_, okay?" Sam snapped. "We're doing everything we can…"

"No, you're not." Crowley cast a pointed glare toward the closed basement door before meeting Sam's eyes again, accusing. "Not _everything_."

Before Sam could respond, the cabin door opened and Dean walked in. The moment he saw Crowley standing there, he pulled out his gun and took aim.

"The hell are you doing here, Crowley?" he demanded.

"Talking to a brick wall, apparently," Crowley retorted, sounding extremely unimpressed. "Since neither of you seems prepared to do _whatever it takes_ to find out how to _stop_ this!"

Sam was distracted from Crowley's tirade, however, when his gaze locked onto his brother's hands, his stomach clenching with alarm. Dean's hands were trembling slightly on his gun – and they were coated with blood.

"Dean?" Sam stood up again, taking a step toward his brother. "What happened?"

"Vamp attack," Dean replied, grudgingly lowering his weapon and putting it away, keeping a wary eye on Crowley. He shook his head slowly with a grimace. "In broad daylight, too. Must have taken out a dozen people."

"What did I tell you?" Crowley held up a hand toward Dean, giving Sam an exasperated look.

Dean frowned. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"The walls," Sam spoke up quietly before Crowley could. "They're – they're already starting to come down."

Dean stared at him with a sort of sinking dread in his eyes – as if Sam was only confirming a conclusion he'd already reached. "Those weren't just ordinary vamps," he said, his voice shaking dangerously. "They were _Purgatory_ vamps. What they did to those people…"

Dean shook his head, looking away. His gaze stopped on his own hands in front of him, and Dean froze, a slow swallow visible in his throat. Sam frowned, worried by his brother's demeanor.

"Dean…?"

"Bottom line." Dean's voice was low and hard, and it took Sam a moment to realize that he was talking to Crowley, not him. "How much time do we have?"

"Before it's too late to reverse the damage to the walls?" Crowley considered for a moment. "I'd say it's measured in hours now. Less than a day, certainly."

Dean didn't look away from his blood-stained hands, but he nodded once, slowly, taking in the information.

A heavy knot was beginning to form in the pit of Sam's stomach, and his words came out hushed and cautious. "Dean… _what_?"

Dean didn't answer for a moment, his hands slowly closing into fists in front of him – before he lowered them to his sides, squaring his shoulders and heading toward the basement door.

"_Dean_!" Sam raised his voice, alarmed.

"_Finally_, some _progress_!" Crowley sighed. "I'll leave you to it, then."

Sam had barely glanced toward him when Crowley vanished. Abruptly worried, Sam turned back toward the table and grabbed his backpack from under it, relieved to find that the tablet was still there – but Dean was still heading for the basement.

"_Dean_!" Sam called out across the room, and Dean stopped a bare step away from the door, not turning around, just waiting. Sam's voice was softer when he asked, "What are you going to do?"

"Whatever I have to," Dean replied, his voice low and trembling.

"Dean… wait…"

"We don't have _time_ to wait," Dean snapped, looking up at Sam with anguished eyes. "You heard Crowley. We've got less than a day – and people are already dying. _Children_, Sam."

Sam hesitated. "Then – I'll go down there with you. We'll – talk to him, _together_…"

"_No_." Dean's tone was quietly adamant, leaving no room for argument, as he looked down. "You keep looking for an answer up here. Keep up the research. If there's any way to save the world – _and_ – save _Cas_…" Dean cast his gaze up at Sam again, pleading, desperate, like a man walking to his own execution. "… I _need_ you to _find it_, Sammy. Fast. _Please_."

Sam wanted to tell Dean to wait – but there was no time. He wanted to argue that there was another way – but they hadn't found one. Instead, Sam swallowed down all the useless words he wanted to say, and nodded resolutely.

"All right. I'll keep looking. I'll find something, Dean, so – so don't…" He swallowed, his mouth dry, his stomach roiling. "I'll _find something_. I promise."

Dean nodded once, wordlessly, before opening the basement door. Sam watched helplessly as his brother squared his shoulders, took a deep breath… and began the descent.


	7. Chapter 7

"Time's up, Cas," Dean announced as he reached the bottom of the stairs, his voice sharp and commanding. "I need to know how to end this, and you're gonna tell me. _Now_."

Cas winced as he pushed himself up on one hand, looking up to meet Dean's eyes. He seemed unconcerned with Dean's question, his eyes drifting downward and then widening in alarm when they fell on Dean's hands. Dean glanced down, his mouth dry when he realized that they were still covered in blood. The little girl's fearful eyes flashed into his mind… the way her hand had trembled, and then finally gone still in his; guilt washed over Dean with the memory.

_If you'd been willing before now to push a little harder… to go a little farther… she'd still be alive… she's dead because you wouldn't… _

"Dean, what happened?" Cas's voice was soft and urgent, filled with concern that was strangely jarring in the wake of Dean's brutal self-recriminations. "Are you hurt?"

"What?" Dean blinked, startled. "No, it's – it's not mine. That's not the _point_, Cas…"

Cas frowned, looking away, visibly troubled. "I – I should have been able to tell that. Should have sensed it – why didn't I know?"

Dean stifled his rising frustration as he stalked toward the kneeling angel, wiping his hands self-consciously down the legs of his jeans, though the blood was too dry at this point for the gesture to have much effect. "No angel powers right now, Cas," Dean snapped. "When are you going to get that through your head? That means no flying away, no smiting, and apparently no… freaky mental ESP crap, either."

Dean felt a fresh wave of frustration and anger wash over him with the realization that Cas actually looked _relieved_ that Dean wasn't hurt – if still vaguely bothered by the idea of his lost abilities. Certainly he didn't seem troubled in the slightest by the blood that still coated Dean's hands. As long as it wasn't _Dean's_ blood – as long as _Dean_ was unhurt, then apparently the brutal murder of a single human child was _meaningless_…

He didn't know he was going to do it until it was done; in an instant, Dean closed the rest of the distance between them, drawing back one hand into a tight fist and bringing it down across Cas's face in a brutal backhand blow.

Cas toppled over sideways, unable to catch himself with his wrists chained, and he let out a short, startled cry as the wound in his chest was pulled by the motion. Dean reached down, not giving him a moment to recover, and seized a fistful of Cas's hair, yanking him back up onto his knees. He felt a sense of intense satisfaction and strangely_, relief_ when finally, _finally_ he saw something akin to fear in the angel's wary eyes.

Dean smiled, though it felt wrong on his lips, hard and tight and miserable. "And it also means," he continued, his voice low and menacing. "That when I do _that_… it _hurts_."

Cas held his gaze, his breathing slowly evening out again as the momentary shock faded from his eyes, and he swallowed hard. "Dean…" he began at last, breathless but carefully calm. "I don't know what else I can say…"

"You can tell me how to end this," Dean ordered, shaking Cas slightly. Guilt and satisfaction coiled together in his chest when Cas winced slightly with pain, biting his lip and closing his eyes.

Cas looked up at him again after a moment, shaking his head helplessly. "There's nothing to _end_…"

The eyes of the little girl, slowly fading to dull, blank darkness, once again filled Dean's mind, and he let go of Cas with a shove that sent him sprawling to the floor, following it up with a sharp kick to Cas's side that left him choking, gasping for breath, his fists clenched and uselessly straining against the chains that held them down.

"_The hell there isn't_!" Dean snarled. "People are _dying _out there, Cas, and that might not matter to _you_…"

"It _does_ matter!" Cas looked up at him, his expression bewildered, shaking his head. His voice was choked and rasping with pain. "But…"

"But not enough for you to deviate from this stupid fucking plan of yours, huh?" Dean sneered. "Not enough for you to _stop_ it!"

"I'm not _doing_ it!" Cas yelled back – but the effect was rather undone by the ragged cough that followed the words. Cas struggled for breath for a moment before repeating, his voice quieter, weaker, "Dean… whatever is happening out there… I'm _not doing_ it…"

"What is happening…" Dean's words were clipped, slow, his fists clenched at his sides as he tried to maintain control. "… is exactly what the angels – _and_ the demons – _told_ us was going to happen, Cas. The walls are coming down between all the worlds. Angels are here that aren't supposed to be, and monsters that have been locked up in Purgatory for the last few centuries, and who _knows_ how many demons are topside now, and it's all falling apart, Cas. The entire world. Because of this fucking stupid plan of yours to bring down the walls."

Cas blinked up at Dean before his mouth twitched slightly in something that on anyone else wouldn't have been an actual expression at all. For Cas, though, it was as close as he ever got to a sarcastic smirk – and it made Dean's hands twitch, white hot rage bubbling up in his chest. It made him want to wipe that look from Cas's face using the most violent means possible.

"You're right, Dean," Cas said, his tone sharp with annoyance, eyes blazing and defiant. "That would be a… _fucking stupid plan_. Why would I _ever_ want to do something like that? Have you even _considered_ the question of what my _motivation_ would be to do such a thing?"

"Yeah." Dean smiled coldly down at the angel, taking a couple of steps closer to him. "We have. You're trying to clean up your _last_ mess… but all you're doing is swallowing it up in a bigger one. Convenient, though, isn't it?" Dean sneered, bitter and sarcastic. "Clears you of responsibility for all the angels – all the _people_ that are _dead_ because of you – if you just fling open all the doors to all the possibilities and let whatever happens, _happen_, right? Hey, if you're lucky when the dust clears… there won't be anybody left who even _remembers_ all the stupid shit you pulled _before_."

Cas flinched, looking up at Dean with wounded eyes. "Dean…" He shook his head, his voice breathless but heavy with sorrow. "I – I wouldn't… I'm not trying to…"

"No, Cas, you never fucking _are_, are you?" Dean snapped, his voice rising in fury as he went on. "You always think you're doing the right thing, but then everybody but you ends up screwed in the deal. You'd think sooner or later you'd _stop trying_ and just focus on _not_ destroying every single _fucking thing you touch_!"

Cas flinched, eyes suddenly averted to the floor, a painful swallow visible in his throat, and despite his fury, despite his desperation, Dean felt a pang of sympathy for the damaged angel at his feet. In the stillness that followed his shouted words, his rage momentarily depleted, Dean just felt tired and empty… and overwhelmingly sad.

It was true, he realized – everything he'd just said. Cas _did_ keep trying and trying to do the right thing, to help, to fix what he'd broken.

And somehow, every time, things just ended up more thoroughly shattered than they'd been before.

"Cas…"

Dean's voice was softer, as he slowly knelt on the floor facing his friend. Cas looked up at him warily, his posture tense, his bound hands clenched into useless fists. Dean ignored his vain attempt to retreat, reaching out a hand to rest firmly at the back of Cas's neck and using his other hand to pull Cas up by his arm until they were face to face. Cas met his eyes, uncertainty in his own as he waited for Dean to go on.

"It doesn't have to be this way, all right?" Dean pointed out, and there was a note of pleading, a tremor in his voice that he hadn't meant to be there. "You can end it. Right now. You can tell me what to do to – to _save_ everybody, and we'll fix it. Together… you, me, and Sam. All right? You tell me how to end the spell, _right now_ – and nobody needs to get hurt anymore."

Cas looked away, lips parted in what Dean already knew was going to be another protest, and Dean shook him slightly to silence him, pulling him in closer, lowering his head until his and Cas's brows were almost touching. Dean closed his eyes, swallowing hard, struggling to maintain control.

"_Think about_ what I'm saying here, Cas, okay?" Dean raised his voice, a desperate tremor threading through his words. "Because… we're running out of time, and – if you give me the wrong answer now – I'm not gonna give you another chance to just _decide_ to give me the right one. Do you understand what I'm saying to you?"

Cas's voice was soft, pained, as he replied, "Dean…"

"Do you _understand_?" Dean pressed, shaking Cas again and wincing at the choked little whimper of pain that escaped the angel's lips at the motion. "Cas, if you don't tell me on your own – _right now_ – then – things are about to go in a direction that I don't want them to. And _you_ don't want them to. But – but I don't have a choice anymore. I – I _have_ to stop this before… before anyone else dies…"

"I – I'm so sorry, Dean." Cas's voice was quiet and achingly sad.

Dean looked up at him without backing down at all, his face inches from Cas's – and his heart sank when he saw the sympathetic, compassionate look in Cas's eyes and realized that he _wasn't_ leading up to a confession. Dean felt the heat of frustrated desperation building in his chest, resentment and rage for what Cas was about to force him to do.

"I'm so sorry," Cas continued softly, sounding for all the world as if he was actually sincere. "I'm sorry I've so thoroughly broken your trust in me with my past failures that… that you're incapable now of even _considering_… that I might be telling the truth." He paused, hesitant as he continued, "I – understand why you can't. I – can never undo the damage I did before, although – I'd give _anything_ if I thought I could, but…"

"Yeah, well, it doesn't work that way, Cas," Dean cut him off coldly. "All those people you killed – no matter what you do, their blood is still on your hands. _This blood_…" Dean gathered the collar of Cas's open white shirt in one red-stained fist, close enough to Cas's face that he _had_ to see it, his other hand still at the back of Cas's neck, now clenched tight and preventing any attempt at retreat. "The blood of a fuckin' _child_ who had her _throat ripped out_ by Purgatory vamps – that's on you, Cas. That is on _you_."

Cas's eyes locked onto Dean's hand, and the way his face fell – the intensity of sorrow in his eyes as he heard Dean's explanation for where the blood had come from – it was simply _infuriating_.

_No,_ Dean thought, bitter resentment seething in his stomach. _He does_ not _get to do that – start this whole fucking thing and then act like he's _sorry, _like he actually_ cares _about one little human girl who got caught in the crossfire… _

"That's on you," Dean repeated, his voice low and cold, as he brought his other hand around, clenched into a tight fist in front of him. "And clearly… you've made your choice."

Dean simultaneously drove his fist forward into Cas's wound, and let go of his collar so that he fell backward. Cas collapsed to the floor on his side, his fingers shaking, curling uselessly upward in a vain, instinctive attempt to touch the source of his agony. His face was contorted with pain, his breath coming in short, shallow gasps.

"Dean," he choked out, struggling to pull himself up again, eyes wide and wary and rolling toward Dean as Dean approached him again. "If I knew… how to stop it… I would, but… but I didn't…" He flinched as Dean reached toward him again, gasping out an instinctive, unintentional, "_Please_…"

And _there_ it was.

Something clenched tight in Dean's stomach – at the same exact moment as a delicious heat began to build in his chest, a sense of satisfaction and _success_. He remembered relishing that moment, over and over again, in Hell. Sometimes it took a long time to get there; sometimes it was there from the moment the hapless soul was strapped down, panicked and screaming for mercy before he'd ever touched them.

But eventually, they _always_ got there.

And now, it was a sign of more than simply Dean's skills of persuasion. It meant that Dean had found a weak spot, that he was actually getting somewhere, that Cas was just that barest fraction closer to giving in and telling Dean what he needed to know. It meant that Dean could still save the world.

It meant… that he _couldn't_ stop _now_.

Dean grabbed Cas by the hair at the back of his head, yanking him up as far as the chains would allow. A cold smile found Dean's lips, unbidden, his own heart racing with anticipation at the sound of Cas's breath quickening, the way his hands yanked helplessly against the chains as Dean shifted in close, his free hand hovering over the now blood-stained bandage on Cas's chest.

"Tell me… the _truth,_" Dean ordered, his voice quiet and commanding.

"I _am_," Cas replied desperately, his voice shaking, his eyes wide and locked onto Dean's. "Dean… _don't_…"

Dean's hand rested for a moment over the bandage, and he felt Cas's heart under his hand – rapid and frantic like a tiny bird struggling to escape – and he felt the rush of power flow over him, that old familiar satisfaction that had always come with being the one in control, the one, _for once_, doing the hurting instead of being hurt. He tore away the bandage and tossed it aside, watching Cas's face closely – and there it was.

Cas flinched, just slightly, almost imperceptible – his jaw tightening, a convulsive swallow in his throat as his eyes darted downward for just an instant before meeting Dean's eyes again. Dean held his gaze, his fingers brushing lightly over the crude stitching that had been the best they could manage after removing the tablet. Blood was already seeping from the wound again, from the rough treatment Dean had already doled out.

Cas's breath caught in his throat and he closed his eyes for a moment, visibly struggling to maintain control of his reactions. And when he opened his eyes again, the bewildered expression there told Dean that Cas was more surprised by that than Dean was. Dean remembered what Sam had told him, about Jacob's Call – how Cas's restrained grace also meant that his reactions would be more human. Not only could he feel things like pain and fear more intensely than he ever had as an angel – but he had no means left with which to conceal his reactions to those things.

The calculating, efficient technician that Alastair had trained Dean to be took note of this, filing it away for future use. It was an unexpected side effect of restraining Cas's grace, but one that would definitely work in Dean's favor.

"Tell me," Dean repeated, his voice low and chilling. "Or I _promise_ you, Cas… it's going to get so, _so_ much worse…"

"_Dean_…" There was open fear on Cas's face now, and he looked up at Dean with pleading eyes. "You have to believe me… _please_…"

Dean didn't hesitate – strong fingers digging into the wound on Cas's chest until blood flowed, warm and sticky, over Dean's hand. Cas let out a strangled, agonized cry, blue eyes staring up at Dean in such anguish and _betrayal_ – and suddenly, memory flashed through Dean's mind… those same eyes, looking up at him with trust and reverence, looking to him for guidance… looking at him with _love_ rather than the hurt and terror that filled them now…

Abruptly Dean let go, taking a step back. Cas collapsed to the floor again, shaking and gasping, and Dean felt a cold, creeping horror slipping in alongside the calculated determination that had filled him.

_No… no, what are you_ doing? _You can't, this is… this is_ Cas_, damn it!_

Dean was vaguely aware of the sound of hurried, purposeful footsteps overhead, and he knew that Sam was responding to the unsettling sounds he'd heard from upstairs. The mental image of Sam's face if he actually made it down the basement stairs – the horror of Sam seeing this long-buried side of his big brother that Dean had hoped he'd _never_ see – suddenly, Dean found himself hurrying for the stairs, knowing only that he _couldn't_ let Sam get down here – couldn't let him see what Dean had done...

Sam was finding it difficult to focus on his laptop, his mind caught up in worry over all the things that Dean could be saying – or _doing_ – to Cas. But he hadn't heard any screams or anything too disconcerting, so he tried to do as Dean had requested and keep trying to find an alternate solution. He had given up trying to find a truth spell, and instead focused his efforts on some means of restoring the walls, _without_ Cas's cooperation – but that was proving to be rather discouraging, too.

His attention had just been distracted from his efforts by yet another horrific story of death and destruction – this one of a massive fire that had taken out an entire apartment complex. Some witnesses claimed that they'd seen some residents actually _preventing_ others from escaping the flames, rather than trying to help them. Others said they'd seen some of their neighbors carrying in cans of gasoline minutes before the fire had started.

"I just don't understand," one young woman wept on the screen as she told her story. "I've known Julia since _kindergarten_. She would _never _– I – I don't know what could have possessed her to… to do something like that…"

_Yeah… 'possessed' is definitely the key word here…_ Sam watched in grim silence for another few moments before trying to focus his attention back on his work… and that's when he heard it.

Sam's stomach lurched at the sound of the anguished cry from the basement, and he automatically rose to his feet, crossing the floor toward the basement. He hesitated at the door, however, abruptly torn. The idea of what Dean was possibly doing down there, to their _friend_, made him feel sick. Everything in him wanted to stop it… but… he glanced back toward his laptop, and thought of the children that had died so horribly when angels had attempted to possess them… and of the families that had perished in the apartment fire… of the earthquakes and tornadoes and other natural disasters claiming new lives with every passing minute…

The basement door opened, and Dean came out, closing it hard behind him. His eyes were wild and shell-shocked, and he was shaking. He raked one trembling hand, caked with dried blood, through his hair, and abruptly put the other hand behind him. The guilty swallow in his throat as he met Sam's eyes for just a moment and then looked away broke Sam's heart.

"Hey," he said softly, reaching out to touch Dean's shoulder. "Dean… hey, look at me…"

Dean shook his head, staring down at the floor, his expression anguished. "Sammy, I – what I just did to him…"

Dean was quiet for a long moment, before bringing his hand out from behind his back, holding it up in front of him and staring at it through dull, resigned eyes. Sam looked at it too, his stomach roiling at the sight of the fresh blood – dark, slick red overlaying the previous stains on Dean's hand – and the realization that it was _Cas's_ blood – _Cas_, who had _died_ for them more than once. But then, Sam thought of the blood on Dean's hands when he'd walked in – the blood of a _child_, he'd said – and he realized with a sinking heart that one was no better than the other.

_There's gonna be blood on our hands either way_, Sam thought, reaching out to pull his brother closer, against Dean's resistance. _It's not like Dean's going to _kill _Cas… and… if it's the only way to keep more children from dying…_

"Dean… hey." Sam raised one hand to rest firmly at the back of Dean's neck, ducking his head to try to catch Dean's gaze. "_Dean_."

Dean looked up at him, his wide green gaze searching… for forgiveness, or condemnation, or maybe just direction. Sam knew that last was true, when Dean finally spoke, his voice low and wavering dangerously.

"Sam, I – I don't know what to do," he confessed.

Sam's heart ached with the choice they had to make, but he knew that he couldn't leave it to Dean. This was killing him as it was, and if Sam could maybe bear just a little of the responsibility, make the call for him if he could do nothing else…

"Where's the angel blade?" Sam asked suddenly.

Dean frowned, glancing toward the door. "O-on the table, downstairs…"

"Go get it."

"Sam…" Dean hesitated.

"Just do it, okay?" Sam instructed firmly. "Go get it, and come back up here."

Dean was back in moments, his pace hurried, his breath shuddering, and he handed over the blade to Sam, his eyes worried and questioning. "Now what?"

Sam tucked the blade away into his own jacket, before resting one hand on Dean's shoulder, and the other at the base of his neck, gentle and reassuring.

"Now," Sam said softly, "you do whatever you _have_ to do."

Dean's eyes widened with understanding, as he glanced toward where Sam had put the only weapon that could permanently kill Cas, for safekeeping. He nodded slowly, then closed anguished eyes, lowering his head and shaking it.

"Sam… I don't know if I… it's _Cas,_ and I…"

"I can do it," Sam offered quietly, his heart lurching with panic even as he spoke. "This isn't all on you, Dean…"

"_No._" Dean's voice was firm, and Sam realized immediately that the offer had been a mistake when Dean looked up at him, mask solidly in place again, though his eyes still shone suspiciously. "No, Sam. I – I'm the one – equipped to do this. You're – you're research guy. Okay?" Dean's smile was forced and shaky. "You – keep researching."

Sam frowned. "Dean…"

"I'll let you know if it gets to be too much. Okay?" Dean held Sam's gaze, and Sam knew even as he spoke that it was a promise Dean had no intention of keeping. "Just – stay up here, all right? Don't come down there – no matter what you hear. Okay?"

Sam was feeling worse about this with every word that left Dean's lips. "Dean, I don't know…"

"_Sam_." Dean's voice was heavy and trembling, and it silenced Sam instantly. Dean was staring down again, unable to meet Sam's gaze. "I – I don't want – the things I might have to do, I don't want you to – you _can't_ see me like…" He closed his eyes for a moment before meeting Sam's gaze again. "Please. Just – stay up here. _Please_."

"Okay." The word left Sam's lips in a whisper, before he even knew he was going to agree. There were secrets Dean still kept from everyone – things he'd seen and experienced that Sam just had to accept that he could never understand – and Sam was beginning to realize just how much this task was going to cost his brother.

He just wished he had a better alternative to offer.

Dean turned his gaze toward the closed basement door, and Sam saw that his lips were trembling, his eyes filled with dread. Dean swallowed slowly before looking back at Sam, his mouth set in a firm line for a moment before he spoke.

"I need to… to get a few things. From the car," he said quietly.

He started to move away, toward the cabin's front door, but Sam stopped him, his hand on Dean's shoulder tightening and stilling his retreat.

"Dean," Sam said softly, his hand sliding around to the back of Dean's neck and drawing him in close. "It's the entire world at stake. I know that. This isn't something you – _want_ to do, and – you have no choice. I understand."

Dean's smile was brittle, his gaze averted, and Sam knew that somehow, he'd said the wrong thing again – but Dean offered no explanation for how. He just reached up and gently, almost apologetically pulled Sam's hand away, squeezing it for a moment before letting it drop and taking a backward step toward the door.

"I'll be right back," Dean said, his voice low and hoarse.

"_Dean_…" When Dean stopped, reluctantly, though well out of Sam's reach, Sam found himself momentarily lost for words, helpless to think of anything that might help. "I – if I can do… _anything_…"

Dean looked up at Sam finally, such utter defeat in his eyes that it drove the rest of the words from Sam's lips. When he spoke, his voice was quietly pleading, but there was no hope there.

"Find me another way."

And then Dean was gone, out the front door and to the Impala, where he stayed for several minutes, rummaging through the trunk. Sam paced restlessly back and forth between the laptop and the cabin's front window the whole time, feeling anxious and sick, as he waited for his brother to return.

When Dean came back inside, his face was cold and controlled, his eyes dead and expressionless. The handle of his small duffel bag was clenched in his white-knuckled fist, and Sam shuddered inwardly to imagine just exactly what was inside. Dean's tone was as hard and flat as his eyes, as he finally spoke, his words sending a shiver down Sam's spine.

"I'm ready."


	8. Chapter 8

Sam watched while trying to look as if he wasn't watching, as Dean stopped at the ratty sofa and set down his duffel bag, opening it up and rummaging through it. Sam swallowed, making himself look away. Finally, Dean zipped the bag closed again, shouldering it before he approached Sam with one hand extended.

"You'd better hold onto this, too," Dean said, his voice low and unsettlingly calm. "As long as you're keeping all the deadly weapons for angels out of my reach."

Sam looked down at Dean's outstretched hand, understanding dawning when he saw the vial of holy oil there. He took it and set it on the table beside his laptop. "It's not, though," he pointed out. "Not with his grace restrained."

Sam wasn't really sure why he'd felt the need to clarify that. Maybe even in the midst of this utterly fucked up situation, he couldn't stop focusing on the details, couldn't stop being a "nerd" as Dean would have pointed out if he wasn't so thoroughly, _horrifyingly_ focused at the moment.

Maybe he was just stalling, trying to delay Dean in getting to his intended destination.

It worked, if only for a minute.

"Huh?" Dean frowned.

"The holy oil works because it responds to an angel's grace," Sam explained. "With his grace repressed like it is right now, the holy oil can't kill him. The information I found on Jacob's Call says it isn't lethal as long as the bond is in place. The only thing that can kill an angel under the bond is an angel blade – and only in the hand of the person he's bound to." Sam paused, a nervous huff of humorless laughter escaping his lips as he added, "It'd still hurt like hell, though."

Dean nodded absently, distracted, as he headed toward the stairs. Sam wanted so badly to call him back that when Dean stopped, Sam felt a tremendous sense of relief. Maybe he'd just thought of something – something that could keep them from having to do this.

But when Dean turned, his expression was still carefully blank as he returned to the table. He picked up the vial, turning it over in his hand, looking down at it speculatively for a long moment. Finally, he tucked it into his pocket. His flat, expressionless words, without hesitation or a shred of emotion, sent a chill down Sam's spine.

"Guess this might come in handy, then, after all."

Sam didn't know what to say. His mouth was dry, his heart racing, and he felt sick to his stomach. Dean looked up at him with dead, cold eyes, seemingly oblivious to his reaction. Sam hoped that meant he was hiding his horror well.

"What was that thing, earlier? The other thing? The one you didn't want to tell me?"

Sam frowned, shaking his head in confusion.

"The thing you said we couldn't do to Cas," Dean clarified, his eyes hard, his tone slightly impatient. "What was it?"

Sam's stomach clenched as he remembered. "Dean…" he whispered, his brother's name coming out weak and choked.

"Come on, Sam."

Sam swallowed hard. "It – it's _bad_, Dean…"

"_Tell me_."

As Sam hesitated, the mental image of the classroom of children murdered by angels filled his mind. The memory of how it'd felt to see Dean's hands stained red when he'd walked in the door – how it'd felt to hear his explanation for how that blood had gotten there.

_Whatever we have to do… we_ have _to do it._

"It's his wings," Sam blurted out, before he could think himself out of it. "They're – apparently the most sensitive part of an angel's body. Where they're – most vulnerable."

Dean frowned. "Yeah, that's great, Sam. But we can't _see_ them…"

"Right. We only see the shadow they cast, or the scorch marks when they've been burned away. But… there's a spell." Sam was quiet, resigned. "It's in one of the books we brought from the library. It can make an angel's wings… visible to humans. Tangible. Allow humans to – to touch them."

Dean considered that for a moment, then nodded slowly. "Good. That's what we need, then, right? We need to break him as fast as possible…"

"I don't know, Dean." Sam hesitated, finding it difficult to maintain eye contact with his brother at the moment, unsettled by the unnaturally placid expression on Dean's face as he casually discussed torturing and _breaking_ their closest friend and ally. "This book is… pretty ancient, and… it seems like some pretty heavy mojo to be working."

"Yeah. And we're in a pretty heavy situation," Dean pointed out. "World's ending, Sam. Unless we stop it. _Fast_."

Sam raised a hand to rub at the back of his neck, frowning and trying to find the words to make Dean understand his misgivings. "It's just – the book says the spell was carefully guarded by the angels for centuries, because – I don't know, the writers weren't clear on the details, but the book refers to it as… well, it literally translates to… _'the unspeakable'_. As in, it was so secret, there aren't even Enochian _words_ for the spell, because the angels were forbidden to even _speak_ of it, even amongst themselves. The guys who recorded the information believed that, to the angels, it's like – the worst thing that can possibly be done to them." Sam watched Dean's face closely for any sign of hesitation, increasingly unsettled when he found none.

"Well, _yeah_," Dean reasoned with a harsh little scoffing sound that, strangely, almost made Sam flinch. "Really convenient that the most vulnerable parts of their bodies are always protected from humans. Guess they _would_ want to keep that secret."

"I don't know, Dean. It just – it seems like a really drastic step to take…"

"We're miles past 'drastic'," Dean countered, his tone flat, as he held out his hand. "Give me the book. Show me the spell." He frowned. "What language _is_ it in, anyway?"

"The early Men of Letters translated it into Latin. And the words are – pretty simple, but… this is blood magic, Dean. I mean – if you think we really need to, I'll…"

"If I think we really need to, _I'll_ do it," Dean snapped, impatient. "We are officially out of options, all right? We don't have a choice."

"I know." Sam's voice was quiet, his eyes carefully focused on the book as he paged through it, a little slower than he could have, seeking the correct page. "It's just… the way the book makes it sound… if – if we do something like that – no matter _how_ this ends…" He looked up as he found the page, meeting Dean's blank eyes with his own, worry gnawing at his stomach. "… Cas is _never _going to want anything to do with either of us again."

Dean looked away for a moment, his tone bleak and heavy. "Pretty sure that's gonna be true either way," he said. He was quiet for a moment, considering. Then, to Sam's immense relief, he softened just a little, meeting Sam's eyes again with sympathy. "Look, Sammy," he sighed. "I'll only use it if I have to, all right? It's just – just in case. Just – show me?"

Sam bit the corner of his lip, hesitating just a moment before nodding and turning the book around, pointing out the passage to his brother. Dean read over the Latin under his breath for a moment before nodding and taking the book, making Sam cringe when he folded the page down before closing it and tucking it into his bag.

"It's not like I'm actually gonna have to use it, anyway," Dean remarked, his tone flat and cold again. He looked up at Sam again, and for just a moment, Sam thought he caught a glimpse behind the mask, to the sheer misery in his brother's eyes. Then it was gone, shuttered behind a cold smile, as Dean concluded softly, "He's not gonna last that long."

When Dean reached the bottom of the stairs, Cas was lying on his side, curled protectively around his injury; but he looked up as Dean neared him, eyes wide and wary, watching Dean as he set his duffel bag down on the table, opened it, and calmly began laying out its contents on the table, where Cas could clearly see them.

Dean didn't speak to Cas or turn toward him, but he hazarded a glance out of the corner of his eye as Cas shakily dragged himself up on one arm.

"Dean." Cas's voice was hoarse and weak, and he winced as he struggled to swallow. Dean picked up a knife in one hand, and the half-full whiskey bottle he'd taken from the liquor store in the other, and turned to face Cas without looking at him. "Please… can we talk about this? What's happening? I know you – you think I'm… causing it, and I'm _not_, but… but _someone_ is, and… and perhaps… if you tell me what you're seeing… out there… we can… figure it…"

Cas's words trailed off as Dean reached him and knelt down on the floor facing him. He tried to pull away, but his efforts were useless as Dean reached behind him with the same hand that held the knife, grabbing a bit of his hair and yanking his head back. Cas's eyes were wide, frantically trying to follow Dean's hand – or more accurately, Dean figured, the knife – before he gave up and fearfully met Dean's eyes.

Dean smiled, keeping his voice quiet and deceptively light as he observed, "You're stalling."

With his other hand, he raised the whiskey bottle and took a long drink. Then he raised it again and poured a mouthful past Cas's parted lips.

Cas coughed and choked, trying to pull his head away, but Dean just held him still, forcing his head to stay back until the last of the whiskey had gone down. While he patiently waited, Dean set down the bottle, a low laugh escaping his lips.

"Oh, Cas," he said softly, shaking his head, something like affection, but sadder, darker, in his voice. "Take away one little thing… your grace… and you go from guzzling down a whole liquor store to choking on one drink."

Cas flinched slightly, looking away, and Dean knew his words had gotten their message across – a pointed reminder of the angel's current state of helplessness. As he tilted his hand, allowing Cas's head to fall forward without letting go of his hair, Dean reached back to take the knife with his free hand, bringing it around and resting the blade against Cas's chest. He tapped it lightly a couple of times, watching Cas's reactions closely with a faintly mocking smile on his face.

"Better?" he asked.

Cas's voice was only slightly less hoarse, his wary eyes on the blade, when he managed to reply, "Not… not really."

Dean laughed.

Cas's eyes were pleading, wide with rising fear, and Dean could tell that his behavior was having its desired effect. "Dean… please talk to me. Please, just…"

"No, Cas," Dean cut him off, pressing the blade up under his chin and silencing him as Cas bit down on his lower lip and closed his eyes in a pitiful attempt to control his reaction. Dean kept his voice soft and measured, perfectly controlled, as he continued, "_You_ are going to talk to _me_."

"_Sam_." Cas barely managed to gasp out the word as Dean trailed the blade slowly down Cas's neck to his shoulder, pushing his shirt to the side with it. Dean froze, ice in his veins as his eyes locked with Cas's again. There was a trace of dread in Cas's eyes, as if he knew it was possible he had just made a terrible miscalculation, but he swallowed hard and continued, "I – I want to talk to Sam. Where is he?"

Dean wasn't aware of his hand tightening in Cas's hair, of the blade pressing tighter against his skin, until Cas winced, drawing in a sharp, shaky breath. With an effort Dean eased his grip a fraction, resumed the blade's idling path down Cas's arm, using the motion to slide his shirt back and off to hang around his wrist.

"You don't need to talk to Sam," Dean replied, tracing the knife across Cas's stomach, smiling a little as Cas flinched away from the touch of the blade, but couldn't get far with Dean holding him in place. "Sam has nothing to do with this."

"He… he wouldn't approve of what you're doing," Cas tried again, breathless, and Dean heard the slightly higher pitch of his voice, the telltale sign of his rising panic. "He said…"

"Maybe he wouldn't," Dean cut him off again, watching the knife as it pushed Cas's other sleeve down, leaving his shirt gathered around his wrists and further restricting his movement, his torso bare and vulnerable to Dean's blade. "But he's not here right now, is he?" Dean used the tip of the blade to tug, just barely, against the lowest of the stitches on Cas's chest, and the angel bit back a frightened cry. Dean smiled. "This is between _you_, and _me_," he concluded. "And you're gonna tell me how to save the world."

Cas said a lot of things over the next hour, as Dean employed his blade as creatively as he could manage on this plane – but none of them were what Dean needed to hear. He knew he couldn't _kill_ Cas, not without the angel blade – but he also knew from his own painful experience that it was possible to do enough damage to make even an immortal subject utterly incapable of offering any sort of response. It was a fine line – inflicting enough pain to be persuasive, yet without that pain being so overwhelming that it made the whole exercise pointless.

An hour and a half in, and Cas was a trembling, bloodied wreck – but he still hadn't yielded the information Dean needed. He still insisted that he was innocent, that someone else was causing the disasters, that Dean was being lied to. Dean knew, he assured Cas. He was being _lied to_, all right. But not for much longer.

Another hour in, and Cas stopped trying to defend himself. He became silent and still, unresisting… no more pleading or arguing. His shaking, flinching reaction to Dean's blade had become a constant fine tremor, and he watched Dean's hands with blank, glossy eyes that seemed resigned to the suffering – but no longer particularly moved by it.

So, Dean brought out the vial of holy oil.

And – _that_ got a reaction.

As Dean trickled a little of the oil onto Cas's shoulder, Cas jerked away from it with a gasp, staring up at Dean with horrified disbelief.

"Dean," he rasped out, his voice hoarse from his repeated attempts at pleading his case. "You _can't_. You'll _kill_ me."

Dean didn't respond, just took out his lighter and flipped it open, staring at the tiny flame with a slight smile on his lips.

"This is _foolish_," Cas snapped, his voice shaky but stronger than Dean had heard it in hours. "I can't tell you _anything_ if I'm _dead_!"

Dean looked up at him then, latching onto the slight slip – the first even minor success he'd had during this whole encounter. His smile widened slightly as he closed the remaining distance between them, holding the lighter a few scant inches away from Cas's shoulder, glistening with the oil Dean had spilled there.

"Oh, so there _is_ something to tell, then," Dean remarked with a note of triumph in his voice. "Thought so."

Cas's face fell with dismay as he seemed to realize what he'd said, and he shook his head slowly, his eyes shining in the light from the flame as he watched it. "Dean," he whispered. "No… no, that's not…"

Dean kept the lighter where Cas could see it as he moved to stand behind him, then abruptly grabbed him by the throat, cutting off his protests and any attempts to pull away, as he touched the lighter to the oil, and it erupted in flame. Immediately Dean stepped back, not wanting to get caught by the flame himself – and a moment later, Cas let out a choked cry of anguish, fighting desperately against his chains, struggling to find a way to put out the flame that burned his skin. Of course, there was nothing he could do. He couldn't reach it with his hands, had nothing to press it against to smother it. All he could do was helplessly let it burn.

Dean watched impassively for a few moments, before taking a cloth from the table beside them and pressing the rough fabric against Cas's scorched skin, deliberately dragging it just a little as he pulled it away. Cas was shuddering, gasping for breath, a low moan of agony escaping his lips as Dean crouched behind him, his hand at Cas's throat again, pulling him back against Dean's chest. Cas shook his head, wordlessly pleading, as Dean held the vial of oil in front of him, tilted as if to pour out more, this time on Cas's wounded chest.

"I'll give you two seconds to start talking," Dean said softly in Cas's ear. "Or you're gonna get it again."

He released his grip on Cas's throat as he poured the oil out, and Cas's breath quickened with panic, as he pleaded frantically, "Dean, no… _don't_…"

Dean lit the oil – and the angel let out a scream, back arching as the flame licked at his skin, and he struggled uselessly to escape it.

A mere fifteen minutes later, Cas lay unconscious on the floor, passed out from the pain. Dean sat in the wooden chair next to the table, his head in one hand as he stared at the tools of his trade that he'd already put to use, with no effect – and then at the book that lay there beside them.

He'd tried everything he could think of, every trick Alastair had taught him for extracting a confession – not that the confession itself had ever really mattered in Hell. Whenever they'd gotten whatever "information" they claimed to want, they'd simply start all over again with a new question. Or not bother with the question at all, but just carry on with the pain. It was simply a point of amusement for Alastair, a proof of his skill, that he could convince _anyone _to admit to _anything_.

And it was a skill that Dean had mastered, too, eventually.

_So why the hell am I getting nowhere?_ Dean brought his hand down angrily on the table, cursing under his breath. _How is he still holding out?_

He had gone so far already – crossed so many lines he'd sworn he never would again – and with no success. They had only a few short hours left before it would be too late, if it wasn't too late already – and Dean was running out of options, and ideas. He lowered his head into both his hands, closing his eyes as he drew in a deep, shaky breath, and let it out slowly.

The sound of Cas's panicked, agonized screams filled his head, and he didn't let himself even think about his brother, upstairs – the things he'd been hearing, the things he must be _thinking _right now. Sam had told him to do _whatever he had to do_, and that's what he was doing. He didn't have a choice.

He couldn't bring himself to look at his one-time friend – _never again, no matter how this ends –_ bloodied and scorched on the floor at his feet.

Dean opened his eyes, looking at the book again. He picked it up and turned to the page he'd marked, laying it open on the table in front of him. It was a pretty simple spell, to be spoken of in such ominous terms by the Men of Letters. A few easy Latin words, spoken over some blood from the angel in question, drawn into a simple sigil on the floor.

_It's the worst thing you can do to an angel…_ Sam had said.

_But it's the only option we've got left._

Dean swallowed hard, finally forcing himself to turn his gaze toward Cas, who was just beginning to shift on the floor with an unconscious whimper of pain. Dean didn't let himself look away, sitting up and squaring his shoulders, schooling his face into the impassive mask he knew he had to wear, knew he had to present to Cas, because if he let it slip – if he let a trace of how much this was killing him out in his eyes, if he even let himself _feel_ it for a _moment_ – Cas would see it.

Cas would see it, and he would _know_ – and any advantage they currently had would be lost.

Dean watched, trying to distance himself from what and who he was watching, trying to pretend that it was just another random soul on his rack, just another fool who'd brought this on himself, with his own evil deeds or foolish dealings with demons. And in a way, that _was_ Cas, wasn't it?

_He brought it on himself… he's the one_ _killing the world_…

Cas looked up at Dean, blue eyes blinking in confusion… and Dean watched as it all slid back into place, and Cas remembered where he was, and why. Fear replaced confusion, in the instant before Cas looked away, his eyes on the floor instead of Dean's face.

He remembered _that_, too – and the rush of pleasure that usually accompanied the moment when he knew his victim held a true and almost reverent dread of him – that they knew the power he held over them, and didn't dare to risk his anger.

Seeing it on _Cas's_ face… all Dean felt was _sick._

"Dean," Cas said, his voice careful and quiet, betrayed by a slight tremor behind the words. "Please. You – you have to see. This is _pointless_."

Dean glanced down at the book again, before rising to his feet. Cas glanced up anxiously, accidentally meeting his eyes for just an instant – and the angel visibly wilted, drawing back the pitiful amount that the chains and his injuries would allow him. He flinched as Dean crouched down in front of him, placing a firm but gentle hand at the back of his neck. But when no pain immediately followed the gesture, Cas looked up at Dean again hesitantly, questioning. Dean nodded slowly, glancing down at the floor for a moment before meeting Cas's eyes.

"I know," he said simply.

Then he reached down and dipped his hand into the pooled blood on the floor, where his knife had spilled it. Cas watched him with a frown of confusion, as Dean moved a little ways away and crouched down on the floor.

"Dean? What… what are you…?"

Dean ignored Cas's quiet, uncertain words, dipping a finger into the pooled blood in his palm and painting the required sigil on the floor. When it was finished, he wiped his hands off on the same rag he'd used to put out the flames, then picked up the book.

"Dean… wait…"

As Dean began to speak the Latin words over the blood sigil, Cas abruptly went very still, very tense. He jerked against his bonds, his eyes darting back and downward as if he could see over his own shoulder, as a sharp, startled cry left his lips.

"Dean… _no_!" Cas cried out. "Wait, no! Don't do this! _Don't_!"

Dean ignored him, continuing the chant as Cas writhed and fought against the chains, desperate to free himself, as if struggling against some unseen attack, and Dean knew that the spell must be working. Dean almost flinched himself as Cas lunged toward him abruptly, as if he could somehow _stop_ Dean from finishing the spell, despite his helpless state, and Dean didn't know whether to laugh or cry. It was so desperate, and so pathetic, and he wondered why this spell was _so very terrible_, anyway, and his voice shook just slightly over the last few words… but he didn't stop.

"Dean, _no_!" Cas sobbed out, his voice raised and rapid with panic. "Please, you _can't_ do this! I _know _you, Dean, and I know you think you have to, but you _can't_ do _this_! This is an _abomination_, and you _are_ the righteous man, and _I know_ you _can't do this, please_…"

Dean looked up at last, the Latin fully spoken. He swallowed with difficulty, not sure why he felt this hesitation, this something inside him that was quailing under the force of Cas's desperation, and a near palpable sense of something electric and powerful filling the room. For a moment he considered not finishing the ritual. He could find another way.

Except, there _was_ no other way. There was _no more time_.

Just Sam's voice, echoing in his mind, "_Whatever we have to do_…"

"You were right before, Cas," Dean said, his voice low and trembling slightly as he held his hand, still coated in Cas's blood, dripping over the sigil. "Hell _broke_ your 'righteous man'." He paused, glancing down at the sigil, increasingly aware of the crackling, electric power surging in the room. "Now – now, I can do whatever I _have _to do."

Before he could hesitate any further, before his nerves could get the better of him, Dean brought his hand down into the center of the sigil, as Cas let out an anguished, pleading cry. A bright flash of light flooded the room, along with a shockwave of energy that knocked Dean off his feet and onto his back on the floor. The unsettling, ear-piercing sound of angels' voices faded in, and then out again swiftly, as the light faded away – leaving only a massive wall of black, large enough to block out the light from the tiny basement windows… and the soft rustling of angel's wings.


	9. Chapter 9

As his eyes adjusted to the changed light in the room, Dean took in the awe-inspiring size and shape of Cas's wings. They were enormous, each wing stretching out to either side so that they nearly touched the walls. They hardly fit in the room at all, really, the arched joint of each one touching the ceiling, unable to extend to their full length in the small basement room.

But an instant after they appeared, there was a rustling of feathers as the wings drew sharply in and down, close to Cas's back. Dean blinked in surprise; he wouldn't have thought it was possible for something so massive to be compressed into such a small space, but they were – folded in so that they did not extend on either side of Cas's body, and only rose to about the level of Cas's head behind him, the tips trailing on the blood-soaked stone floor.

With his wings so withdrawn, Dean finally noticed Cas himself.

Dean frowned, an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach as he took in the anguished look on the kneeling angel's face. His head was bowed low, his trembling hands turned palms up and raised toward his face, as high as he could lift them – which wasn't far with the chains at his wrists. Still, Dean recognized the gesture Cas was attempting, hindered as it was. He was familiar with the emotion that prompted it, the emotion that was clear on Cas's face.

_Shame_.

He was trying to _hide_ his face, trying to hide his _wings_ – though for his life, Dean couldn't imagine why.

Cas's wings were _magnificent_.

Dean found himself drawn toward them, crossing the room without realizing it, until he was standing behind Cas, the folded wings in full view. From this side of the room, the sun streamed through the tiny basement windows and made the blue-black feathers gleam, a faint shimmer detectable as they shifted with the tremors that passed through Cas's body.

Instinctively, Dean reached out a hand to touch, wondering if they were as soft as they looked. Cas flinched, though Dean hadn't yet touched him, as if he'd somehow sensed what Dean intended to do, and let out a soft, hitched breath.

"_Don't_…"

Dean didn't know why Cas didn't want his wings to be touched… if they were really that sensitive, that easily hurt, or if there was something more at work here, something he'd only be able to comprehend if he was an angel himself. He _did_ know that Cas's aversion to having them touched was something that could only work in his favor. And besides – the _urge_ to touch, to _feel _the soft slide of the dark, iridescent plumes between his fingers was almost irresistible.

As Dean's hand neared the wings, he stopped, just barely not touching, struck by the sense of awe he felt at the unbelievable strength and unearthly beauty, just under his hand. There was a strange pit in his stomach with the thought that he was possibly the only human who had _ever_ seen Cas's wings – ever had the opportunity to touch them. And suddenly, Dean hesitated to do so. There was a sudden, overwhelming sense that here was something precious, almost _sacred… _

_Beautiful…_

The word filled Dean's mind, accompanied by a pang of something like regret. But just as quickly, Alastair's voice followed it, reminding, almost reassuring.

_This isn't the first time you've destroyed something beautiful, is it, Dean? _Dean swallowed hard, closing his eyes, wrestling with his doubts. _He's completely in your power, and he's _so close_… can't you _feel _him trembling, breaking, right under your hands? You know how to do this, Dean…take him apart… take him apart, and find what you need among the broken pieces…_

_What I need…_

Dean opened his eyes, squaring his shoulders and forcing himself to focus. Only hours left. Hours, and all would be lost if he couldn't sack up and do what he needed to do.

"Please," Cas whispered again – or maybe he'd never stopped, maybe Dean had just stopped hearing him – but at any rate, Dean ignored Cas's protest, reaching out a hand to touch the spot between Cas's shoulder blades, where the wings were rooted. He deliberately waited a moment, feeling Cas's shaking intensify at the contact, allowing the anticipation to build, before sliding his hand slowly down the upper ridge of Cas's right wing. The slightly ruffled feathers smoothed under his hand, and Dean found himself marveling at the sheer power he could feel, thrumming just under the surface, muscles coiled and poised for flight that, for now, they were denied.

"Please… please, _don't_…" Cas whimpered, but his voice was a little stronger now, a little more urgent.

"Why not?" Dean asked, frowning, genuinely curious. After ten years wielding Alastair's blade, he knew everything there was to know about human physiology, where each nerve was located and how to play it to maximum effect. But these wings were new – foreign and fascinating, and Dean had no idea at all how they worked. _Yet._ "Does it hurt?"

Cas didn't answer, but he did jerk forward against the chains, trying to pull his wing out of Dean's grasp. Dean's jaw set in anger – more at himself than at Cas, for allowing himself to be distracted by the wings themselves and momentarily losing control of the situation. He didn't have _time_ for this; he _had_ to break Cas, had to get him to confess before the whole fucking _world_ was damned – and if the bound and battered angel was still capable of this much resistance, it meant that he was still much farther from that point than Dean had hoped.

Dean responded to Cas's defiance immediately, retaliating by digging his fingers beneath the soft outer feathers, feeling the thin, fragile bones bend in his clenched fist as he yanked Cas forcefully backward again, back to the place where he'd been before.

Cas let out a choked cry of pain as Dean's other hand reached around to grasp his chin, tilting his head back and remarking in a low, warning voice, "I wouldn't do that again."

Cas was shaking violently, his breath coming in shuddering gasps, his eyes closed as if he could somehow shut out what was happening to him. And all at once Dean felt strangely sick, a damp chill of apprehension passing through him – because what _was_ happening to him, anyway? Dean had barely _touched_ him yet. He'd done a lot worse in the past few hours to the rest of Cas's body than he'd even _thought_ of doing to his wings.

And yet, Cas seemed on the verge of panic, devastated by the simple touch of Dean's hands in a way that even burning holy oil on his flesh hadn't accomplished.

Dean wondered why that realization made him feel more anxious and uneasy than satisfied.

_Focus, Dean…_ he told himself, setting his jaw and squaring his shoulders, shutting out his doubts and trying to think only of what he had to do. _You don't have time to hesitate. Just get this done… before anyone else dies…_

Dean let go of Cas's face and returned his attention fully to Cas's wings, both hands now slowly running down their length, carefully feeling the framework of bone and tendon that ran beneath their surface. Cas twitched and jerked slightly against Dean's hands, as if warring with his own instincts to fight, or escape.

The thought had just crossed Dean's mind that perhaps he should find a way to restrain the wings; the muscle definition under his hands was impressive, and Cas's reactions were becoming erratic and panicky, and if Cas actually _figured out_ that his wings weren't tied down like the rest of him…

It was at that moment that Cas's left wing jerked free of Dean's grasp, with so much force that Dean actually stumbled toward it, pulled off-balance. And then, Dean's eyes went wide when he saw the wing drawn up and back, high and poised like a serpent ready to strike. His mind went back in an instant to an abandoned barn painted with every mystical symbol known to man, and the bone-deep certainty he'd felt when he'd first seen Castiel – the knowledge, even _before_ every single one of his weapons had failed, that this was something far more powerful than he, and he was completely out of his league.

This moment felt very much like that one.

Dean barely had time to think that this was it; he had made a critical mistake that would cost him the game – and maybe more. As the blow fell, swift and sharp and with bone-crushing strength, Dean realized that he should have _thought_ that the wings might be dangerous, might be used as a weapon. It was too late now; he wouldn't get a chance to remedy his mistake.

But the wing never made contact; it stopped just short of slamming into Dean and no doubt sending him flying. Dean heard a cracking sound, as if it had hit a physical wall, before the wing fell, limp and heavy, to the floor, and Cas let out a shocked, breathless cry of pain, his back arching, his face contorted in agony. All at once Dean remembered: Jacob's Call prevented Cas from hurting him; any pain Cas tried to cause Dean would only come back on him. Relief overwhelmed Dean for a moment… and was then quickly replaced with indignant rage.

_This is what happens when you falter, Dean…_ Alastair's voice taunted him. _You lose control of your subject, and you lose _everything… _he can't forget you hold his very_ life _in your hands… his suffering, or the end of it, are _yours_ to decide…_

As Cas began to regain his breath from the shocking blow, he let out a weak sob of pain, pitifully attempting to lift the damaged limb, which now lay sprawled out awkwardly and dragging in the dust and blood that coated the floor. As Dean moved around to face Cas again, he deliberately drove the heel of his boot down into the center of the shattered bone that ran along the wing's upper ridge. The pitiful little cry Cas let out as a result choked off abruptly when Dean grabbed his hair and yanked his head back. Dean forced a cold smile as he knelt down in front of Cas and leaned in very close to his face.

His words were clipped and vicious as he snarled, "That was very… _very stupid_, Cas. You forget…" Dean reached out his free hand over Cas's shoulder, his fingers slowly stroking through the feathers at the root of Cas's damaged wing; his smile widened a little when Cas shivered, shaking his head rapidly, pleadingly. "… you are _not_ in control of what happens here. You _can't_ hurt me." Dean's smile faded, and he stared into Cas's wide, dread-filled eyes. "I, on the other hand… I can do _anything I want_ to _you_…"

"Please," Cas gasped, eyes downcast in submission, trembling words tumbling from his lips in a desperate rush. "Dean… I-I'm sorry, please don't, _please_…"

"I don't give a damn about your _sorry_," Dean spat out, and Cas shuddered and flinched as Dean tightened his grip on Cas's wing, twisting sharply, before letting go of him with a shove and standing up again. "All I want to hear from you… is the _truth_."

Cas fell forward onto his face when Dean let him go, sobbing, but before his face left Dean's view, Dean thought he caught a trace of a bitter, anguished _laugh_ behind the tears – and something in Dean's stomach clenched, something worrying at the back of his mind – but he couldn't think about it, not now, couldn't let himself lose focus again. Instead, he walked around behind Cas, deliberately placing his foot down on the end of Cas's good wing and pinning it down, as he drove his fist into the upper half of the wing, clutching a handful of feathers and twisting, hard.

"Please stop," Cas sobbed, choked and desperate. "Please, Dean… please _stop_…"

"You _know_ how to make me stop," Dean reminded Cas, his voice soft and almost gentle again, and he eased his grip, withdrawing his hand to run it soothingly down the middle of Cas's back. He knew very well how effective, how unsteadying a gentle touch could be in the wake of violence and pain. Cas shivered, and Dean leaned in close, wrapping his other arm around Cas's shoulder in what might have been called an embrace under different circumstances.

He brought his mouth close to Cas's ear, raising his hand to run it gently through Cas's sweat-soaked, blood-matted hair as he said, "You're _making_ me do this, Cas. You think I _wanted_ to hurt you?" There was an ache in Dean's throat as he spoke, but he swallowed it down, keeping his words steady and smooth, falsely sympathetic. "You brought this on yourself. It doesn't have to be like this, and you know it. Any time you want me to stop… you know what to do."

But Cas didn't confess… and Dean didn't stop.

Dean never knew afterwards just how much time passed, as he threw himself into his gruesome task, all too conscious of the fact that it would soon be too late. He spent all his efforts on Cas's wings, twisting and breaking, ripping out handfuls of the beautiful, shimmering feathers until they were dull and blood-soaked on the floor. Where the wings dragged the floor_, _now too large for Cas to hold up in his weakened, injured state, Dean crushed them under his feet, breaking fragile bones and rendering the powerful wings useless.

Finally, Dean took out the oil again.

He hesitated to use it, not sure how quickly the wings would burn. He didn't want to take the whole cabin down in the process. He kept the rag he'd used before close at hand, barely lighting a patch of dark, matted feathers before putting out the flame again, over and over, while Cas cried and tore at his chains and begged him to stop.

Until he didn't, anymore.

Until he lay shivering on the floor, too weak and exhausted even to cry, his throat stripped raw from screaming. Dean didn't let himself look too closely, didn't let himself think about how the sick, uneasy feeling he'd felt before had gone from a background hum in his brain to something closer to a warning shout, insistently repeating that _something wasn't right here_. But he _couldn't_ let himself stop, not before it was finished.

To have come this far, to have done so many unspeakable things, to _Cas_, and have it all be for _nothing_ – _that_ was more unthinkable than any of the vile, cruel acts Dean had committed in the past few hours.

He picked up a knife from the table, crouching down in front of Cas and dragging him up by his hair, back onto his knees. Cas was exhausted, barely able to focus his gaze at all. Several times during the past few hours, he'd nearly slipped into unconsciousness. But Dean had ways of bringing him back around, and he'd refused to allow him even that brief respite.

Now, Dean patiently waited until Cas managed to drag his eyes up to Dean's hand in front of his face, making sure Cas definitely saw the blade he held, before tracing the tip of it over Cas's shoulder and bringing it to rest lightly at the base of one of his wings.

"Wonder what happens to an angel if you cut its wings off?" he mused, making his tone almost bored. "Does it die? Like a butterfly? Slowly waste away to nothing?"

Cas was shaking uncontrollably, looking up at Dean through glassy, distant eyes. Dean knew he was in shock at this point, overwhelmed with the pain and horror of what he'd been experiencing – and Dean was just beginning to wonder if perhaps he'd lost his window entirely, if Cas was ever going to say _anything_ again… when it happened.

Cas's lips parted, and he started to speak, then faltered, eyes dropping to the floor.

Dean stopped, bringing the knife back around and placing a hand at the back of Cas's head, leaning in close. He could see hesitation in Cas's face, taking the place of his earlier determination, and his heart raced as he realized that he was closer than he'd been yet to the result he needed.

"What?" he urged Cas gently, a coaxing, intimate tone to his voice. "What is it, Cas? Tell me."

Cas looked up at him, fearful and uncertain, as he swallowed with difficulty, then replied in a halting, hesitant whisper.

"_I… I did it_."

Dean stared at him for a long moment, almost not believing it after so long without success. He blinked, dragging his lower lip between his teeth for a moment, a wary frown on his face as he said finally, "Come again?"

"I did it," Cas said again, a little stronger, though his voice broke over the words, and he lowered his gaze again. "I – tried to end the world. I'm sorry."

Dean felt his hands begin to tremble, felt tears prickling at the backs of his eyes, and he wasn't sure whether it was sorrow that what they'd suspected, what everyone had told them, had proven to be right – or relief, that it was about to be _over_. Dean leaned forward, resting his head against Cas's, his thumb rubbing gently back and forth against the back of Cas's neck as he let out a heavy, shaky sigh.

"I know," he replied, his voice low and reassuring. "I know you are, Cas. It's gonna be all right, you just – you have to tell me how to stop it, okay? Tell me what to do to _stop it_, now."

Cas looked up at him, blue eyes brimming with fresh tears, and Dean wasn't sure whether it was the confession or the affection, after so much brutality, that brought them on. Cas's lips trembled as he met Dean's eyes and whispered words that abruptly made Dean's stomach drop, his heart clenching in his chest.

"_Kill me_."

Dean swallowed hard, staring at Cas in disbelief. "What?" he managed at last, his voice hoarse and a little shaky.

"You… you have to kill me," Cas repeated, his voice weak and pleading and desperate, and the distinct underlying feeling that _this wasn't right _filled Dean's mind again. "To – to end the spell you – you have to – kill me, Dean…" Cas lowered his head, and just under the rushing in his own ears, Dean thought he caught the sound of a soft, broken, "_Please_…"

It was the "_please_" that did it. Dean's unease, the sense of _wrong_ness, the weird suspicion that he hadn't been able to put into words, hadn't _wanted_ to put into words once he'd already gone so far… all of it finally clicked into place in his mind. Cas's almost manic, broken laugh when Dean had demanded the truth, the way he'd clung to his story even when he'd been beside himself with agony, even when he'd barely been able to speak at all… the way he'd almost seemed to _believe_ it…

_Cas has_ never _been a good liar… _

Dean suddenly felt like he was going to be sick. He let go of Cas abruptly, rising to his feet and backing away, staring down at the bloodied, broken form of his friend – his _friend… _

_He kept saying he didn't… what if he… what if… damn it, what did we _do_?_

Cas collapsed forward onto the floor, now that Dean was no longer holding him up, his bound hands jerking against the chains as if reaching out to try to pull Dean back to him.

"Did you _hear _me, I said I _did_ it!" Cas cried out, his voice hoarse and thin and mindlessly desperate, his shoulders quaking with soundless sobs. "Just _kill _me!" he cried with frustration. "Just _do it_!"

Alastair's voice was a sly, malicious whisper in Dean's mind, the words bringing everything spinning to a dizzying _stop_, as Dean's mind filled with sudden, brutal clarity.

_With the right tools and enough time… you can make_ anyone _confess to_ anything_, Dean…_

"_Please_," Cas sobbed, his face to the dirty stone, his voice heavy with exhaustion and despair. "I can't – just – please, just _kill me_…"

"Well, _that_ would sort of ruin the punch line, wouldn't it?"

Dean jumped, spinning toward the sound of the familiar voice. Crowley stood there smiling at him with his hands folded behind his back. Dean's jaw set with anger and he glared at Crowley through his tears, snarling, "_Get out_."

"Gladly. This just isn't any fun anymore," Crowley sighed, a smirk on his lips, a single eyebrow raised as he took in Cas's damaged form.

The angel had gone silent and still… Dean hoped mercifully unconscious, as Dean hadn't allowed him to be for the past several hours. Cas had been fading in and out for the past few hours, but every time his pain and exhaustion had nearly dragged him under, Dean had found some new agony to inflict to bring him back, screaming and pleading. Dean shuddered when his eyes fell on the wreckage he'd made of Cas's wings, not even a hint of their former glory visible now amidst the blood and ash.

_Broken. Desecrated. All for… for _what_? If he really didn't do it… didn't do _anything_… then…_

Dean pressed his thumb and forefinger to his eyes, trying to shut out his own anguished thoughts. When he looked up again, Crowley was watching him closely, a secretive, satisfied smile on his lips. His tone was almost reproachful as he concluded.

"Now you've gone and figured out the joke."

Dean stared at Crowley for a long moment, then looked away, staring past the demon king as his mind whirled with the implications of his words, as the pieces slowly began to fall into place… and the picture they formed was a horrifying nightmare of blood and betrayal. Dean slowly looked back at Crowley, voice hushed with dawning horror.

"You… _you_ did this."


End file.
